


Stay

by sneetchstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 71,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9926234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: Ichabod moves in with Abbie, an arrangement mainly of convenience. However, they are too closely bonded to have a conventional roommate relationship. Nightmares need keeping at bay. Ichabod needs tutoring in the ways of the 21st century. And things start... happening...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written very early on in season one, after episode two or three. It is almost completely AU, with one or two references to events from the show. Cover image courtesy of shirlywhirl!

"He can stay with me." The words are out of Lieutenant Abbie Mills' mouth before she realizes she's said them.

Several sets of eyes, including the unsettlingly intelligent blue eyes of Ichabod Crane, lock on Lieutenant Mills' small frame.

"I mean… I've got an extra room, and… I'm the only one here who isn't completely freaked out by the guy," she stammers, trying to recover. Grasp for a reason why she's just volunteered to take on a roommate who is over 250 years old.

Problem is, he appears to be somewhere between 25 and 30. Problem is, he still doesn't seem to have a grasp on the modern world, and who could blame him? It's a good thing he's wickedly brilliant, or he'd undoubtedly be terrified.

Problem is, Abbie is just a tiny bit attracted to him.

"And it's not like he has any means to pay rent," she finishes. _Mental note: find a way to get Crane paid for his consulting work._

The department decided that they would no longer finance Crane's motel room, despite the fact that he's proven undeniably beneficial to solving these strange cases that seem to be cropping up with increasing frequency. Also, there have been complaints, both from the guests and the motel staff.

He'd broken a few items in his attempts to figure them out. The telephone. The remote control. The bathroom faucet.

He spooked the other guests with his antiquated manners and clothing, his unending questions (though most of those were directed at the poor rookie soul who drew the short straw and wound up guarding his door).

And then there was the screaming. Crane had nightmares. And the other guests tended to be less than sympathetic when the weird British guy screaming bloody murder in the next room woke them up at 2 a.m.

"I won't be an imposition?" Crane asks softly.

"No more than you already are," Abbie answers, smirking.

"Very well, then. Mills, you have a housemate," Captain Irving declares.

Abbie rolls her eyes. _As if I need his permission. He doesn't own my house, I do. And the way I see it, he should be thanking me, not granting me his blessing._

"Come on," she says, plucking Crane's sleeve, "let's go get your things."

"Um, I don't really have any… things…" he says, following behind her. She's a full foot shorter than he is, but she walks incredibly fast. Still, it doesn't take him long to catch up.

"There's nothing in the room you'd like to retrieve?" she asks, stopping suddenly. He almost falls over her.

"Sorry," he apologizes. "Well, yes, just those few toiletries you bought me when I first arrived. Woke up. Again, thank you for those."

"You've thanked me six times for that stuff, I got it," she chuckles, climbing into her squad car. He climbs into the passenger seat. "I think we'll need to go shopping at some point. At least get you some new clothes; aren't you tired of wearing that same outfit? You've been wearing it for, like, three weeks straight."

"It's comforting having _something_ of my old life to cling to. Well, it was. I think I would like some other garments, yes," he finally decides. Then he looks at her. "Can we go to Wal-Mart, perhaps? I should very much like to see that place. It looks like an amazing marketplace."

Abbie laughs, pulling into the motel parking lot. The image of Ichabod Crane in Wal-Mart is just too good. "How do you know about Wal-Mart?"

"Television. Fascinating thing, that. Do you know that there are washing powders that can remove any stain, no matter how set in…"

"Crane," she interrupts him. "You can't take commercials so seriously."

"Why ever not? Surely they aren't lying. Not on a medium that is so readily accessible to the general public!"

_Oh, dear, he's getting all righteous now. This is the "Ten percent levy on baked goods" issue all over again…_

"Well, let's just say that often things on television are… _bent_ … to make things look a little better than they may actually be," she tries to explain.

"Why on earth would they do that?"

"To get people to buy their product or use their service," Abbie says with a shrug. "Now let's go get your things."

They walk up to his dank little room, one of those seedy motel rooms where everything seems stained a permanent shade of harvest gold because it hasn't been redecorated since 1978.

 _I should have gotten him out of here sooner,_ Abbie realizes, looking around and realizing she's a bit afraid to touch anything.

She's seen too many crime scenes in just this sort of motel room.

Abbie waits while Ichabod takes the plastic bag she gave him from Walgreens and puts the toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant ( _that_ was an interesting conversation), and comb back inside. She is initially surprised that he still has the bag, but when she thinks about it, she really shouldn't be. He comes from an era where things were not wasted. "Disposable" probably wasn't even a word, then.

He wanders into the bathroom, the closed part where the shower and toilet are, and she follows, leaning against the doorframe.

"Grab that little shampoo bottle," Abbie says, pointing.

"I cannot use your shampoo?" Crane asks, plucking up the bottle. It looks ridiculously small in his large hand. The shampoo v. soap conversation actually wasn't too bad, she recalls.

"No, you can't," she says.

He quirks his head at her, curious now. "No?"

"Crane, my hair is… different than yours. It needs different products. Here, touch it," she says, turning so her ponytail is facing him.

"Um," he hesitates.

"Go ahead."

He probes with one finger, then, emboldened, takes a lock and rubs it between his thumb and fingers.

"Hmm, yes, I see. The texture is much coarser. It _is_ very different." He rubs it for another moment and drops his hand.

"I'm going to try and get us to Wal-mart tonight, but in case we don't get there, you'll at least be able to use that," she says, tapping the bottle. "Have you got everything?"

"Yes, I think so," he says, dropping the little bottle into his bag.

"Yeah, we seriously need to get you some more things."


	2. Chapter 2

Captain Irving was actually kind enough to give Abbie the afternoon and evening off (barring any emergency demonic weirdness, in which case she is now the first person he calls) to get Ichabod moved and settled.

It's more time than they need, but she takes advantage of it. Once they get his little plastic bag of goodies unpacked at her house (took about ten seconds), Abbie realizes that while she wants to take him shopping, she has no idea what sizes he needs.

 _Tape measure. I have one here somewhere._ She digs into her closet and finds her sewing kit. She's not much of a seamstress, but she can sew on a button or fix a blown hem. She finds the tape measure and brings it to the living room, where Ichabod is regarding an _Entertainment Weekly_ magazine with a puzzled scowl.

"I need to measure you," she says, "so we know what size clothing to buy. There aren't tailors or anything at the stores we're going to."

"Oh. All right," he says, tossing the magazine back on the table and standing.

"We'll start here," she says, reaching up to measure his neck. "Um, can you…?"

Crane kneels down, smiling when he realizes that she's having difficulty because of the marked difference in their heights.

"Thank you," she says. _Why is my voice so breathy? Why is it so warm in here?_

_Get a grip, Girl. His wife may or may not be dead, and she's a witch._

"Sixteen and a half," she declares. Then she measures the arm length. "Thirty-four. You can stand up."

He does, and she decides to measure his chest, in case they get him a sport jacket or something.

"Excuse me," she whispers, snaking her arms around his torso to take the measurement, holding her breath as she does so. "Fourty-four," she declares. "I should be writing these down…"

"I've got them, Miss Mills," he says. His voice sounds a bit too soft, a bit too breathy as well.

_Of course he's got them. Eidetic memory, I think he said._

She wraps her arms around his body again to measure his waist.

He tries to remember to breathe.

"Thirty-four," she whispers. "Oh, dear," she says next.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"I need to measure your inseam… the inside of your leg for the pant – I mean, trouser length," she says, correcting herself so he understands that she's _not_ talking about undergarments.

He's been teaching her a few words as well. "Pants" means "underwear" to him, and while he's trying to adapt, she's trying to be mindful as well to make things easier for him.

"Ah," is all he can think to say.

"Um, hold this, end," she says, handing him the end of the tape measure. "Put it… yes, there," she exhales, relieved that he knows where _there_ is.

"Thirty-two," she says, gathering the tape measure up, nearly bolting away from him. "You, Mr. Crane, are what we call 'a tall drink of water,'" she adds, once there is distance enough to allow her to think clearly again.

"I've always been long and lean, even as a boy," he says, feeling a little less cloudy now as well.

"And I've always been short," she answers, smiling. "You hungry?"

"Famished," he says.

xXx

Over lunch at Subway (he's been obsessed since the first time Abbie brought him there. "All these choices! And how do they slice the meat so neatly and uniformly? I can really have _all_ these things for no additional cost? _This_ is the America I fought for!"), Abbie decides that perhaps dropping Yankee Doodle in the middle of Wal-mart straight out of the gate isn't the best idea. She should gradually work him up to the parade of humanity that is Wal-mart.

Talk about culture shock.

"I think… yes. I think we'll start at Kohl's, down in Yonkers, first," she says.

Crane looks up, disappointed. "Not Wal-mart?"

"We'll get there. Kohl's is better for clothing. And it's still reasonably priced, by today's standards. They always have good sales," she says. _And I have a Kohl's charge card I can dump it all on and worry about later._

"You do not… bargain? Um, haggle over prices?"

"Not in these places," she says.

"Curious," he muses, crunching on a potato chip like it is ambrosia from the gods. "These… chips… I cannot seem to get enough of them," he adds absently. She had noticed that he snapped up the bag rather quickly, obviously remembering them from last time.

"Well, control yourself or you'll get fat," she says, laughing.

"Oh, dear…" he laments. "Is that always the way? The things that taste the best are the least nutritious? First it was the doughnut holes, then that… decadent confection in the orange wrapper…"

"Peanut butter cup," she supplies.

"Good heavens, yes," he groans. It sounds almost erotic.

_I wonder if he sounds like that when… shut up, Abbie._

"And now this," he says, frowning at the yellow bag sadly.

"I didn't say you should _never_ eat them, Crane," she laughs. "Just… use moderation."

"Ah, now _that_ I can understand. And I should definitely consider using moderation next time we are here. I believe I chose poorly somewhere in here." He opens his sandwich and peers inside. "It feels like someone has set my tongue aflame," he mutters, looking for the culprit.

"It's probably the jalapeño peppers," she says. "Those. The round green ones."

He starts picking them out and placing them on the waxed paper sandwich wrapper. "Next time, I shall have to remember not to add those," he says. He cocks his head to the side. "Jalapeño," he repeats, the Mexican word sounding strange in his British mouth. "That's quite fun to say. Jalapeño."

Abbie laughs at him. "You'll learn what combinations you like."

Inside Kohl's, Abbie heads straight for the men's department. _You do not need anything. Crane needs clothes more than you do._ Abbie immediately starts looking at clothes while Ichabod stares around the store, marveling at everything, muttering under his breath occasionally.

"Ah, here we go," she says, rifling through the clearance rack, pulling out a pair of khakis his size. "Crane," she beckons him over. He's inspecting a mannequin, poking at it with his finger.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" he asks smoothly, stepping over.

"See this?" She points to the little 34x32 on the tag. "That's what you're looking for. See if you can find some things you like. I'm going to find you some jeans."

"Jeans?"

"Like these." She points to her jeans. "They're what most people wear for basic everyday clothes."

"Ah. I _do_ like these," he holds up the khakis she'd found already. They're basic cargo khakis.

"Well, hold onto those, and see what else you can find," she says, suddenly realizing that with his slender yet muscular build and slightly above-average height, he's going to look good in anything.

_Lucky shit._

Ichabod peruses the racks, wincing a little at the metallic scraping sound the hangers make on the metal bar. _So many choices. How do they get all these wonderful colors?_ He chooses two more pairs, and walks over to where he can just make out the top of Abbie's head.

"Miss Mills, what letter am I?" he calls, passing a shirt he thinks he likes.

"Letter?" she calls back.

"Yes, this shirt has no numbers. Am I 'M,' 'L,' 'S,' or…"

"Um, try 'XL.' That means 'Extra Large.' You might be a 'Large,' but I think with your height, we'd better go XL." She pauses a moment. "What did you find?" she asks, walking over with three pairs of jeans in her arms. She realizes that she's curious about his taste.

"Just a shirt," he says, holding it up. It's a navy blue tone-on-tone striped button-down shirt, long-sleeved.

 _He has good taste_. "Nice," she nods, quickly checking the price. Not too bad.

"Should I be checking the price labels as well?" he asks, noticing her actions.

"I always do," she says. She doesn't want to tell him that police officers are never paid what they deserve. _No sense in making him feel guilty about all this._ "Just to make sure I'm getting a good deal, you know. Unfortunately, you'll have to learn what a 'good deal' is in today's prices," she sighs. "Grab that blue shirt."

Truth be told, the blue shirt is a little more expensive than she would like, but she can already picture him in it, and… _damn._

She gently guides him back to the clearance racks, this time for more shirts. He picks a few, she picks a few, and she leads him to the fitting rooms.

"What is this?" he asks.

"You can try the clothes on to make sure they fit to your liking before you buy them," she says.

"Wonderful! How clever and convenient," he declares.

Then realization hits Abbie square between the eyes. _Shit._ "Um, Crane, can I ask you a… delicate question?"

"Of course, Miss Mills. You may ask me anything, at any time," he smiles at her.

 _I've heard that one before. Only he actually means it._ "Um, what do you have on beneath your trousers?"

"My undergarments," he says plainly.

"Oh, so you are covered, then," she says, relieved, but also realizing that he'll need some new ones. _Definitely a Wal-mart purchase._

"Of course, why?"

"Well, I had no idea if you wore underwear back then. And you can't go trying on clothes in a store without something covering your business," she says, waving her hand vaguely in the direction of his groin. From a safe distance. "We'll get you some new ones, though. At Wal-mart, not here. Prices are better."

"Very well. I shall try these on, then," he says, seemingly nonplussed by the topic. He gathers all the items in his arms and marches into the changing room.

"I'll be right out here if you, um, need help," she says.

"Thank you," he answers.

"I really like these jeans," he says, striding out of the changing room wearing _only_ the jeans. They are hanging far too attractively off of his hips. "Strong and durable, yet remarkably comfortable."

_Sweet Jesus._

_Stop staring. Eyes up._

"Miss Mills?" he prompts.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Try a shirt with them," she suggests.

"Yes, of course," he says, blinking a little at her strange reaction. "Do these not look good?"

"They look very good," she says. "But sometimes it works better to try things on together…" she adds, grasping for an excuse now.

He shows her everything he tries, and her prediction holds. He looks good in everything. There are one or two pieces he decides he doesn't like, though, and they put them aside.

Abbie looks at his booted feet when he emerges from the dressing room with the clothes they've chosen. "We need to get you some shoes. I mean, the boots are hot and all, but they're not going to work with your new clothes," she says, dropping the clothes in a cart she brought over when he was putting his old clothes back on.

"Hot? Yes, I suppose they do get a trifle warm from time to time," he says, looking down at his feet.

"Oh, um, hot means… attractive," she says.

"Ah. We did not measure my feet, Miss Mills."

"I know. Shoe sizes are different. We're going to have to guess until we find the right one, unless they have one of those foot-measuring things, which I doubt."

"Foot measuring things? Curious."


	3. Chapter 3

"You ready for this, Crane?" she asks him outside Wal-mart. She's recovered from the forbidden thoughts railroading their way through her brain after they had determined his shoe size is a 12. _Combined with those long fingers…_

_Stop it._

"Why does it say 'Juicy' on the back of that woman's trousers?" Crane asks.

Abbie looks. "I don't think I can explain it in any way that you can understand," she says. "That may happen a few times here."

"Why is that?" he asks.

"Because there are a lot of things _I_ don't understand in there," she says. "But they have good prices on things, so that's why I shop here." She climbs out of the car, and he follows.

"What is that man wearing?" he asks, looking at a man striding through the parking lot in plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a Yankees t-shirt.

"Not so loud," Abbie says, tugging his sleeve. He follows her into the store. "Those were pajama pants. People have started wearing them out in public because they're comfortable. I bet you'll see it again, too. Ah, like right there." She points to a young woman in hot pink Hello Kitty pants.

"Dear God, but that is a bright color," he remarks.

Abbie grabs a cart. "Okay. Let's go. If you feel… moved to make a comment about something, do so quietly," she says. He nods.

Ichabod follows her through the store, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes darting everywhere. Occasionally she hears a "good heavens" or "oh my" escape his lips, and each time she endeavors to find the source.

The "good heavens" was a woman whose underwear was clearly visible through her clothes. The "oh my" was a young man with a bright purple Mohawk and a pierced nose.

To be fair, 75% of the people in the store look perfectly respectable. It's that other 25% that just grabs a person's attention.

"Let's see… soap and shampoo…"

"My goodness, why so many choices?" he asks, eyes roving up and down the aisle.

"Different people have different needs and preferences. You know, like how you can't use my shampoo." She reaches up and chooses a bodywash from the Dove for Men line, popping open the top and smelling it. "Hmm." She tries another. "Better," she declares. "Oh. Not that it's my call, sorry. Do you like the way this smells?" she asks, holding the bottle up.

He sniffs. "May I try the other?" She gives him the other. "You are right. This one is better," he says, pointing at the one she preferred.

Honestly, he doesn't care. _She liked that one, so that is the one to get,_ he finds himself thinking. His thoughts have been a little puzzling lately, causing him to start examining what the nature of his relationship with this pretty lieutenant is. Or should be. Or should not be. _And then there's Katrina_ …

He follows her around the corner to the next aisle, where he sees an equally staggering array of shampoos.

This time, he doesn't comment.

Abbie turns and looks at him. "When did you last wash your hair?" she asks.

"Yesterday. Should I have done today as well? I've learned that people today bathe with much more frequency than they did 250 years ago…"

"That's what I'm trying to determine," she says, reaching a hesitant hand up. "May I?"

"I touched yours, so it seems only fair," he nods.

Abbie holds back a snort at his unintentional double entendre, taking a lock of his hair between her fingers.

 _Goodness, it's soft,_ she thinks. _Like silk._

Crane's eyes close involuntarily at the feel of her fingers in his hair. _It's nothing improper; she's not really even touching me._

"I think you're fine," she whispers, suddenly dropping her hand. "Your hair is long enough that it doesn't feel like it needs a wash every day. It doesn't seem too oily, but you'll have to figure out what works best for you. What makes you feel best." She quickly turns to the shelf, a little too quickly, reaching for a bottle of 2-in-1, figuring that is a good bet for someone like him. _Keep things simple._

They move out of Health & Beauty, over towards the men's department. "Underwear and pajamas," Abbie mutters. "Crane," she calls, backtracking to retrieve him from where he's standing and pondering electric razors.

"Do you think I should shave my beard?" he asks absently, rubbing it with his hand.

 _Yes. I bet it's scratchy. No. It looks pretty hot._ "That's up to you," she answers.

"What do _you_ think?" he asks. She stops and looks up at him.

 _He really wants to know._ "I think it looks good," she declares. "It doesn't look antiquated or out of place, either. But if you want to try shaving it, we can get you some supplies."

"I think… not right now," he says, following her again. "Where are we going now—oh, my…"

They're walking past the women's lingerie section, and Crane is distracted by a very large, _very_ purple bra hanging on a display.

"That's a bra. It keeps the girls in place," Abbie says, trying to be casual about it.

"The girls? Oh. Right. So I presume you wear one, then?" His cheeks look slightly pink.

"Yes, Crane, all women do. Well, they should, anyway." She looks around quickly. _I know there has to be one around here somewhere. Come on, Wal-mart, don't let me down… aha…_ "Like her," she points to a woman a distance away who clearly didn't feel the need to suit up this morning. "She's not, and she _should._ "

"Good heavens," he exclaims softly, looking back at the giant purple bra. His eyes flit involuntarily to Abbie's chest for just a second, then he pointedly looks away, his cheeks reddening further.

"They come in different sizes, obviously," she says, still keeping her tone light so as not to embarrass him further.

"Quite," he answers, his voice breaking a little on the single word. She watches as he looks anywhere except at her or the hundreds of brassieres hanging on racks right beside him.

Then he slips, and his eyes once again find their way to her chest for a moment. He clears his throat.

 _I did_ not _just see his fingers flex at his side, as if he was imagining…_

"Um, socks," she mutters, quickly pushing the cart across the way to the men's department. She starts perusing the packages, intent on her task. They had found a pair of simple casual shoes for him at Kohl's, the kind that slip on with no laces, in brown leather, and a pair of sneakers. Abbie chooses a pack of white socks and a smaller pack of brown and black socks.

"Miss Mills, what is a thong?"

 _Shoot me now._ "Nothing you're going to want to wear, trust me," she says, walking the short distance to where he is pondering underwear.

"You might like… these," she says, taking a pack of boxer briefs from the shelf.

"Those look quite similar to my current undergarment," he nods. "I like the stripes," he adds.

Abbie takes two packs containing three pairs each, size large, and drops them in the cart. She finds him some undershirts, a few pairs of pajamas (shorts and t-shirts, basically), and then they are on their way.

As they walk towards the registers, Abbie notices that no one stares at Crane here. Here, he's just another patron, just like that man with the back so hairy it looks like he has a sweater on under his muscle shirt and the woman carrying her screaming toddler towards the front of the store, furious, abandoning her half-full cart.

_Wal-mart: The great equalizer. Everyone's a freak at Wal-mart, so no one is._

"Lieutenant, what is this _Duck Dynasty_ I keep seeing everywhere? Why are these bearded men so popular? Why would a woman want their visages on their clothing?"

Abbie stops. "I wonder that same damn thing every time I'm in here," she says. "It's a strangely popular television show that I just do not understand."

"Oh, so they are not real people, then," he says. He looks relieved.

Their conversation about TV has not progressed to the category of Reality TV yet. _I can just picture it now: "But Miss Mills, why would I be interested in the activities of this Honey Boo-Boo person? I've never met her." Unfortunately, I won't have an answer for him because I don't get it, either._

She sighs. "No, they're real people. I'll explain later. Come on. Are you hungry?"

"I am usually hungry, Miss Mills," he says, following her into the line.

"We'll pick up some pizza on the way home," she says, pulling her phone out to call and get it ordered while they wait in line.

"Excellent. I liked pizza the last time I had it. Can we get some of those… breadsticks?"

"Sure," she says.

The teenaged boy ringing them up reeks of patchouli and has light brown matted dreadlocks tied in a bunch at the back of his head with a rubber band. Abbie notices Ichabod does his very best not to wrinkle his nose. Or stare.

"Why did his nameplate say 'Moonshine?'" Crane asks her when they are in the parking lot.

"Well, either his parents are as crazy as he is, or he's independently crazy and chose to change it, in which case his real name is probably something like Todd," Abbie says.

_A day of shopping with Ichabod Crane is rather tiring._

xXx

After their pizza dinner, she helps him put away his things in her guest room – now his room – and the bathroom.

"We'll get you some more stuff soon," she says, mentally tallying up what she's spent on him today. _I have_ got _to get Irving to pay him or I'm going to go broke._

"Thank you, Lieutenant," he says softly. "I appreciate your generosity more than I can say. I only wish I had some way to repay you for all these things."

"It's all right. I was getting tired of seeing you in the same clothes all the time, anyway," she says, elbowing him in the ribs as she passes him, heading for the door. "I'm… actually going to talk to the Captain about getting you some compensation. I know that getting you a bank account or anything isn't a possibility, but… even if they cut the check to me and then I cash it and give it to you… something…" she trails off. _Taxes could be a problem. Maybe we can find a sympathetic lawyer. God, he'd need a social security number, an ID… but he doesn't even have a birth certificate…_

"Miss Mills?" Crane says, bringing her from her thoughts.

"Sorry. It's just that there's so much… bureaucracy to have to deal with to get you paid… it's giving me a headache just thinking about it," she chuckles.

"Oh, I am sorry for that," he apologizes. "I am trying my hardest not to be a bother."

"I know. It's not your fault; you didn't ask to be suspended in time," she sighs. "I'll talk to the Captain tomorrow and see what we can work out. It's actually not right that you're giving us all this help for free."

"It is my purpose for being here," he states simply.

"Not the point. You need money to survive in this era." She sighs again. "I'm going to go watch television for a bit. You can join me or not; up to you."

"I will join you shortly," he says.

She nods and leaves him, hearing the slight squeak of bedsprings as he sits heavily on the bed.

_I guess he's worn out, too._

After a detour into her own room, she walks out to the living room and switches the television on, flipping channels until she finds something mindless and mild enough. Something that won't feed any nightmares.

_Food network. That will do nicely._

Ten minutes later, Crane come striding out in his pajama shorts and a soft gray t-shirt, his old socks hanging unevenly on his ankles.

_He has nice legs._

"Well?" he holds his arms out at his sides, waiting for her assessment. She notices he's also removed the leather band holding the top half of his hair back.

"Comfortable?" she asks, smiling, not answering his question. She doesn't want to slip and tell him he looks hot in his jammies.

"Extraordinarily," he says. "Textiles have advanced significantly in 250 years." He sits on the couch, on the other end, as far away from her as possible. As if he needs the distance for some reason.

"Those look soft," he says after a few minutes, pointing at the fuzzy pants she's changed into. They're black with lime green and turquoise polka dots.

_Has he been staring at me this whole time? I think he has._

"They are," she says, sticking her leg out. He touches the soft material, down near the hem, gingerly at first.

"Oh…" he breathes, touching it more, "I can see why you like these." He runs his whole hand over the fabric, his long fingers luxuriating in the softness. "Oh. I beg your pardon," he exclaims after a moment, jerking his hand away like he's been burned.

"It's fine," she says softly, moving her leg back to her side of the couch.

He finally turns his attention to the television. "What is this? You watch other people cook?"

"Um, yeah. A person can get some good ideas from these shows, actually. This is called _Chopped._ It's actually a cooking competition."

"Competitive cooking. Interesting," he mutters.

Five minutes later, he is entranced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'm not hating on Wal-mart. I seriously love Wal-mart.


	4. Chapter 4

Abbie starts nodding off on the couch before the end of the second episode of _Chopped_.

"I'm going to bed, Crane. You can stay up or not, but I'm beat. Good night," she says, standing and heading to her room.

"Good night, Miss Mills," he says, appearing to stay put.

Ten minutes later, Abbie steps out of the bathroom, having finished her nightly ablutions, and runs smack into Crane's solid chest.

"Oh! Pardon me, Lieutenant, I… um… oh, dear…" Crane stammers uncomfortably, looking anywhere except at Abbie.

"It's all right, it was an accident," Abbie says. She's learned that when flustered, he retreats to his default setting of extreme politeness. She also remembers how she caught him fleetingly checking out her chest in Wal-mart this afternoon.

_He must be feeling guilty about that._

"Yes, well… I…" He clears his throat, still not looking at her.

"Something wrong?" she asks.

"Well, you're standing there in your underthings. It's not proper, and I shouldn't see you in this state of… undress," he blusters, looking at the wall.

 _Definitely feeling guilty,_ she thinks, almost daring him to peek. "Crane, these aren't my underthings," she says. "These are my pajamas."

"But… they're so… small. I mean… I can see your _legs_ , for heaven's sake," he says, finally peeking.

"Yes. You can see my legs, just like I can see yours. That's allowed now. And you'll be seeing them a lot if you live here. This is how I sleep just about every night. It's just shorts and a tank top," she says, holding her arms out for a second before they drop to her sides again.

"Oh, dear," he says, almost to himself. "What happened to those wonderful fuzzy trousers you were wearing earlier?"

"I just wear those around the house. But they're too warm for me to sleep in," she says. _This is getting ridiculous._ "Crane, look at me. You're going to have to at some point."

He finally does. "But… it's nearly winter. Don't you get cold?" he asks, his eyes lingering on her bare shoulder for just a moment before moving down her arm.

 _I'm feeling warmer now that you're looking,_ she realizes. "No, I actually get, um, warm, when I sleep, usually," she says softly, suddenly wishing she hadn't told him to look at her.

"Oh," he says, just as softly. He looks down at the floor, still not comfortable seeing that much of her skin. "Why are your toenails black? Are you ill?" he asks suddenly.

"No, that's nail polish," she says, laughing now. "Um, paint. Cosmetics, you know."

"What is its purpose?" he asks, even crouching down to look. _She has attractive feet,_ he notes. _Curious._

"There is none, really. That's the beauty of it. And it's not black, it's…"

"Dark purple, yes, I see that now," he says, brow furrowing. He hesitantly pokes the nail of her big toe with his finger. "Hmm."

"Crane, get up, please," she says. "Look: I'm a police officer. I spend my days trying to prove myself in a very male-dominated line of work. So I have one or two little… secrets, I guess, things I do in the privacy of my own home that are nothing but pointlessly feminine. Like painting my toenails. And wearing pink pajamas." She gestures to her current attire.

He stands while she talks, all the while giving her that studious gaze of his, the one he gets when he's mulling something over.

"I don't expect you to understand," she finally sighs.

"No, I understand perfectly. It's about balance," he says, dropping his gaze to her toes again.

"Yes," she says. _Stupid. Of course he understands._ "Sometimes, a girl just likes to feel pretty," she adds softly, shrugging.

"Don't you?" he asks. She looks up at him, and his eyes move from her toes to her face.

"Don't I what?" she asks, her voice suddenly a whisper, as if it is afraid to make a sound. _When did he get so close?_

"Feel… pretty," he clarifies, his blue eyes boring into her dark brown ones.

"I don't think about it, usually," she lies. He keeps staring, the arch of one eyebrow telling her he _knows_ she's lying. "No, I don't, most of the time," she finally relents.

"Pity," he says, his voice as soft as velvet. "Because you are. You're quite lovely. I thought it the moment I saw you."

Abbie says nothing, her breath catching in her throat as she gasps in surprise. _What the hell is happening here?_ "Thank you," she whispers finally. "I'm… going to go to my room now…"

He clears his throat again, and she blinks. The spell seems to have broken. "Um, good night, then, Miss Mills."

"Goodnight, Crane," she says, smiling a little at him. She takes two steps, then turns. "Wait, the moment you saw me, you thought I was a slave," she says, smirking at him.

"An _emancipated_ one," he clarifies.

"Not much better," she says, cocking her head at him.

"I did think you were lovely, even so. I _was_ telling the truth just now," he says quietly, attempting a smile.

"I know you don't lie," she sighs. "Good night. And thank you again."

"Good night, Lieutenant. And thank _you_ for providing me lodgings. Sleep well," he says with a small nod.

"I'll try," she says. "You, too."

"I shall also try."

Crane watches Abbie walk to her room and close the door behind her. He ducks into the bathroom briefly, then retreats to his own room, across the hall from hers. He hears no sound from her room, but sees a faint light coming from the crack beneath the door.

As he stares at the light, it goes off. He heads into his room, closing the door softly behind him.

_It is a good room. Not terribly large, but definitely preferable to the motel. I do not require a lot of space anyway. Miss Mills has allowed me to stay with her out of the goodness of her heart._

_I do not think she realizes how good a heart she has. That is a pity._ He pulls his 250-year-old socks off of his feet and places them in the laundry basket she's given him for his dirty clothes. He looks at his ancient clothing, so familiar, and wonders if they'll hold up to being laundered or if they'll disintegrate into shreds in those white machines sitting in a small room off of the kitchen.

He hums appreciatively as he slides between the sheets, noticing that they are much softer than those in the motel. And the motel sheets were already much softer than the ones he used in his former life.

 _I could get used to this,_ he thinks, turning on his side, pulling the thick comforter up to his chin.

He drifts off to sleep to thoughts of fuzzy trousers, delicate toes painted purple, soft-looking brown shoulders, and Miss Mills' fingers in his hair.

xXx

Across the hall in her room, Abbie is wide awake again, Crane's words and tender demeanor towards her having rattled her into wakefulness. She hears him splashing around in the bathroom sink and wonders how much of a mess he's making.

_That's not terribly fair, Abbie. You know he's tidy. He just doesn't always have a grip on how things work now._

She sits up in bed, playing Angry Birds on her phone, waiting for her eyes to tire.

Then she hears him in the hallway, his footfalls remarkably soft for a man. The floorboards outside her door creak slightly, then there is silence.

_He's right outside._

She considers calling out to him, but holds her tongue. _Why? To what end? Do you want him to come in here and ravish you like you're a damsel from some trashy romance novel?_

_Yes._

_No._

_NO._

Abbie reaches over and switches off her bedside lamp. The floorboards creak again, and she hears the faint click of his door closing.

_Go to sleep. Don't think about his intense, sexy blue eyes or the way his silken hair flops over his forehead. Don't think about his bare chest rising above those jeans or that damnable voice of his calling you lovely._

She slides down into bed, closing her eyes tightly, praying for sleep, but all she sees are Ichabod Crane's eyes.

xXx

Crane wakes up to the sound of screaming.

_Miss Mills!_

Eyes wide, his long limbs flail, trying desperately to untangle themselves from the blankets.

Another scream, and he is out the door, bolting across the hall and onto Abbie's bed.

"Miss Mills! Lieutenant! Wake up!" He's got her shoulders in his hands, shaking her gently. She struggles against him, punching, slapping. Fighting.

"No!" she screams again.

"Abigail!" he tries, wrapping his arms around her, pinning hers to her sides. Her blows manage to connect once or twice, and he is surprised at the power in her tiny body. "It's me, Ichabod… Crane… wake up, Miss Mills," he says, softer now, speaking in her ear.

She stills. "Crane?" she asks, her voice sleepy.

"Yes, it's me. You're safe, Lieutenant, I promise." He continues speaking softly, still holding her. She sags against him.

"Nightmare," she finally says.

"I gathered as much," he answers dryly.

"Shut up," she retorts.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks. _Let go of her._ His arms won't obey. She doesn't seem to be interested in moving, anyway.

"I don't remember it," she says, leaning her head back to look up at him.

He gazes down at her in the dark of her room, and can see wetness on her face from tears surely shed while she was still asleep. Their faces are close, close enough that all either of them would have to do is move two inches and their lips would meet.

Crane reaches up and wipes the tear stains from her cheek with his thumb. Slowly he loosens his grip on her. "Are you all right?" he asks.

"Yes, I think so," she says. "Thank you."

"You are most welcome," he answers, starting to move from the bed to go back to his room.

He feels her small, strong hand grip his wrist. "Stay," she whispers, barely audible. "Please."

"It isn't proper," he answers, feeling like a complete heel for refusing her request.

"The nightmare will come back if you leave, I know it." Her hand is still gripping his arm. Again, he's surprised at her strength.

"Miss Mills…" he says, still hedging.

"Please, Crane. Ichabod."

 _She's never called me by my given name before._ It breaks his resolve, and he sits back down on the bed.

Abbie shifts back underneath the covers, moving to one side of the bed to make room for him, looking up at him expectantly.

She looks so innocent. Young. Frightened. Crane takes a deep breath and slides beneath the covers next to her, keeping close to the edge of the bed.

"Good night, Miss Mills," he whispers.

"Good night, Crane. Thank you for staying," she answers, reaching her hand over. She finds his hand beneath the covers and squeezes it once.

She starts to pull her hand away and he squeezes her hand in return, then twines their fingers together.

Sometime during the night, they drift together. The next morning, when Abbie wakes, she's wrapped securely in Crane's arms, her head on his shoulder.

_Oh, no. I need to get out of here. He'll be horrified. And I need to get up anyway._

She slides out of his embrace as gently as she can, the whole time thinking _Don't wake up, don't wake up, don't wake up._ She makes it out of the bed and into the bathroom, where she turns on the shower as hot as she can stand it.

_Maybe I should have it on cold._

As she slowly wakes up beneath the hot spray of the shower, she realizes that she hasn't slept that well in ages. Years.

xXx

Crane is awake and back in his own room when she emerges from the shower, wrapped in a purple bathrobe.

"Good morning, Miss Mills," he calls to her.

"Good morning," she answers, pausing in the doorway. _Do not mention the snuggling. He might not even know._

"Did the nightmares stay away?"

"Yes, thank you, they did. Did you sleep all right?"

"I slept very well," he nods.

"Apart from the interruption," she says, smiling a little guiltily.

"That was no trouble," he waves it off. "I am only happy I was here to help you."

"Yes, well, thank you again. Shower's free if you'd like to use it," she says, going back into her room.

"I think I will," he says, standing and heading to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, she hears him calling to her. "Lieutenant?"

 _Oh, that's right, my shower is different than the motel._ She pads out to the bathroom, dressed but barefoot, to find him peeking out of the bathroom door.

"Are you decent?" she asks. "Like, covered?"

"Oh. Yes," he says, stepping aside.

He's got a towel wrapped around his waist. Abbie tries not to stare. "I assume you need to know how to work the shower?"

"Yes, please. I guess I was foolish to think that they were all the same," he chuckles.

"Not at all," she says. She shows him how the faucet works, how the one large handle in the center controls everything rather than the two knobs he had in the hotel.

"And this little piece pulls up for the shower," she finishes, turning around to find him looming over her, watching.

"I understand. Thank you," he says, stepping back.

That's when she notices the bruise on his shoulder.

_That wasn't there yesterday._

"Crane," she says quietly, "did… did I do that?" She points to the bruise.

He looks down. "Likely. You did put up quite the fight before you woke up," he says with a shrug. He doesn't seem troubled at all about it.

Abbie reaches up with her fist and matches it to the bruise. "Yes, that's my hand," she says. "I'm sorry."

"Miss Mills, no apologies are necessary. You were in the middle of a nightmare. For all you knew, I was the Horseman or Moloch or any one of a number of nameless, faceless demons we've encountered."

"I think you were a Hessian," she whispers. "Well, not _you,_ but in my dream—"

"In which case you should have struck harder," he interrupts, his face clouding for a moment before his eyes take on an impish gleam.

"I'll remember that next time," she says, smiling. "Enjoy your shower."


	5. Chapter 5

That night, it is Abbie who comes to Ichabod's aid. They'd spent all day and most of the night chasing down a dozen imps that found their way into Sleepy Hollow. It wasn't difficult figuring out _who_ let them in, but getting them to go away was no picnic.

Captain Irving's car is now totaled, the fountain in the town square is now rubble, and half of the windows of the library are now broken.

And then there's the fact that they swarmed Crane, covering him like locusts in a cornfield, making it impossible for Abbie to shoot them without hitting Crane.

They were forced to throw punches and gouge out beady, black eyes as well as other… vulnerable parts, trying to maim the foul creatures with their bare hands. And once Abbie managed to work the puzzle that fit the key into the chest that had originally contained them, Crane had to hang onto a nearby tree to avoid being sucked in as well.

In the end, they were both covered in sticky, dark green blood that smelled strongly of sulfur and decay. Crane earned several lacerations, and Abbie nearly broke a finger.

So after another set of showers, longer than the ones that morning, and some first aid, they collapsed into their beds.

Not surprisingly, it is Crane's turn for nightmares tonight.

His screams rip through the night, piercing Abbie straight through her heart. She sits bolt upright in bed.

"Crane!" she gasps, leaping out and reaching for her gun, hanging in its holster from her headboard.

 _Like that's going to help._ She drops it on her bed and races across the hall just as another tortured scream splits the night.

She rushes into his room to see him writhing in his bed. No; thrashing, the sheets twisting around his long limbs, his gray t-shirt stuck to his chest with sweat.

 _I can't do what he did for me last night. I'd wind up with more than a bruised shoulder_ , she realizes, waiting until he stills enough.

His scream turns into a groan, and Abbie reaches for his hand, holding it between both of hers.

"Crane," she says softly, sitting on the edge of his bed and squeezing his hand, patting the back of it. "Crane, wake up." She lifts his hand, still sandwiched between her smaller ones, clasping it to her chest. "Crane. _Please_." Her voice breaks, growing desperate now.

She's just about to lean over and pat his cheek when his eyes snap open. He looks around frantically, obviously not remembering where he is. "What…?" is all he manages before he sees Abbie sitting there, her face a mask of fear. "Oh…"

"You were having a nightmare," she says. She hasn't released his hand yet.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, sitting up slightly, his sleep-addled confusion replaced with worry for his partner.

"No," she says, smiling a little, unable to help herself. _It's so like him. I had almost forgotten what a gentleman was._ "Of course, I didn't try to physically subdue you the way you did me last night…" she says. "Oh." She suddenly remembers that she's still clutching his hand, and releases it gently.

"Ah. That was probably wise," he says. "Goodness, I'm soaked through." He looks down and notices his damp shirt.

"I'll get you another," Abbie says quietly, going to the chest of drawers against the wall. "Which drawer?"

"Second from the top," he answers, his voice just as soft. She can hear him pulling his shirt over his head. "Just a new shirt will suffice, thank you."

She passes him a clean one, black this time, her eyes briefly flitting to his chest, to the corded muscles there, to the scar on his left pectoral. His souvenir from the Horseman's axe.

"Thank you," he says.

"Was it the imps?" she asks, hovering, not wanting to sit back down but wanting to sit back down.

Crane nods, raking his hand through his hair, uncharacteristically rattled.

"You've bled through your bandage," she comments, noticing the large gauze pad she taped to his forearm three hours ago.

He looks. "It's fine," he says dismissively. "I had suffered much worse in the war."

"I'm sure you did, but I'm still going to change that dressing," she says, walking out of his room to the bathroom.

She returns with a new bandage, peroxide, antibiotic ointment, and some tape. He's pulling at the old tape, hissing and muttering crossly as the adhesive clings stubbornly to the dark hair on his arm. Judging by his language, he's oblivious to Abbie's return.

"What the bloody hell is this devilry? Why could she not just… tie the bandage on like civilized people… ow… bloody… oh, pardon me, Lieutenant." Her soft giggle snaps him out of his grumblings.

"May I switch on the light so I can see better?" she asks, indicating the small lamp on the bedside table.

"Yes, please, and if you know a way to remove this… sticky paper from my arm without removing every hair along with it, please do share."

"That's tape. It's supposed to be sticky," she says, sitting back down on the bed. "Here." She takes his arm and rests his hand on her knee.

His fingers twitch when they make contact with the soft skin of her knee, but Abbie ignores it. Well, she tries to, but she hears the soft intake of breath from Crane that she knows has nothing to do with tape sticking to the hair on his arm.

"It's better if you go fast," she says quietly, reaching for the corner of tape he's already loosened.

"Really?"

"Yes. On three," she says, biting her lower lip. "One…" she watches out of the corner of her eye as he works at mentally preparing himself, "two…"

She rips the bandage from his arm.

"Miss Mills!" he protests, raising his voice at her for the first time.

"Sorry," she says, "but if I had waited until 'three,' you would have worked yourself into a heart attack. And see? It's off." She drops the bloodied pad into the small trash can beside the bed.

"Oh. Still, that was deceitful. And unfair."

She looks at him. "Are you pouting?"

"I most certainly am not," he says, straightening his back. She bites back a smile as he carefully schools his features into a determined non-pout.

"Sorry," she apologizes again, bending her head to her task, dabbing the deep scratches on his arms with peroxide. Claw marks, actually. _He's lucky he wasn't bitten. Lord knows what that would have done._

She feels the tension in his arm while she works, feels him consciously keeping his fingers still on her knee. He is a statue, a stubborn, _proper_ pillar of politesse.

"They were back. Larger, more numerous," Crane says after a minute. "The imps," he adds.

"I'm sorry," she says, this time referring to his nightmare.

"It was… unsettling. I couldn't get away from them. They… they had you, as well," he adds softly.

 _Unsettling_. Abbie knows that's probably his way of saying _terrifying._

"It was horrible to see, I can't imagine what it must have been from your side of things," she says, frowning, ignoring the elephant in the room, for the time being. The large, bright pink elephant wearing a sign over its back that reads _In That Dream He Was More Worried About You And You Know It._ "Hold this, please," she says, and he holds the gauze pad in place so that she can tape it.

"Done," she declares, gathering up the supplies to take back to the bathroom. As she reaches the door, he speaks again.

"Are you coming back here?" he asks, his voice small. Lost. "I mean, will you?"

"Do you want me to come back here?" she asks the door, not looking back.

He doesn't answer right away. "Yes, please," he finally whispers.

Then it hits Abbie. _He is from an era where men did not admit weakness. They were not afraid. They were strong for their women._

_Don't make a big deal of the fact that, for whatever reason, he needs you right now._

_And you are not his woman._

"I'll be right back," she says, still not turning.

She returns a minute later, and he is still sitting up in bed. He's moved to the side to make room for her, just as she did for him the previous night in her bed.

"I'll get the light," she says, reaching for the lamp and switching it off.

She climbs into bed beside him, following his example from last night and staying close to the edge.

"Thank you for staying," he says.

"Just returning the favor," she says, trying for lightness and failing. _It sounds like I don't really want to be here._ "We're partners, right? We look after each other," she adds, attempting to soften the blow.

"Yes. We must protect one another, Miss Mills. Even in slumber, it seems."

"Good night, Crane," she whispers. _Even in slumber._ His words resonate through her for some reason. _When I had to enter the dream world, he immediately volunteered to accompany me, knowing I would tell him not to if he asked. He kept my nightmares from returning last night with just his presence. I can do the same for him._

"Good night, Miss Mills," he answers.

Two minutes later, Abbie feels herself being pulled into his arms, feels his slender-but-strong body spoon behind hers, feels his arm wrap around her waist.

_He's not asleep._

xXx

The next morning, Crane wakes first, still on his side, still spooned behind Abbie. They hadn't moved all night they were both so exhausted.

For the second night in a row, he slept better than he ever had.

_Apart from the 250 years in which I was being held in… what did Miss Mills call it again? Suspended animation._

He's afraid to move, not wanting to wake her. The clock reads 8:44, but they were up very late with the imps. Then there was the interruption from his nightmare. The captain hasn't rung looking for her, either.

_She's sleeping so peacefully. Nature is calling, however, so I am going to need to move soon._

Abbie shifts a little in her sleep and Crane freezes until she settles back in again, sighing as she does so.

He watches her, staring mostly at the top of her head, taking a few moments to examine his thoughts. His feelings.

_Feelings that you have no business having, Ichabod. Truthfully, you are still a married man._

_Katrina may be lost to you forever. On the other hand, she may not be._

_But until you know with complete certainty that you_ are _a widower, you will treat Miss Mills with nothing less than respect and nothing more than friendship._

_Even though you've shared her bed for the past two nights._

_But surely that is out of necessity. We have learned that nightmares are nothing to be trifled with._

_She is your partner, your fellow Witness. The fact that she is a beautiful, intelligent woman, a woman unlike any you've ever met before cannot enter your thoughts, Ichabod._

"You're thinking too loudly back there," Abbie mumbles sleepily, scrunching deeper into the blankets but not away from Crane.

He jumps slightly, the surprise of her voice startling him from his thoughts. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was making any noise," he apologizes.

"You weren't," she says, her eyes still stubbornly closed. "But I can tell you're worrying over something."

"Katrina," he says. He immediately regrets it, but he finds that he can neither lie to nor keep things from Abbie. _Well, there is one thing that must remain hidden._

"Oh," she answers. "Did she visit?" she asks after a moment.

"No. I just… don't know…"

"I know," she says. "She's in limbo, right? Purgatory. Not dead, but not alive. It must be very hard for you."

"Yes," he says. _For several reasons._ "Um, excuse me, Miss Mills, but I must… ah…" he stammers over trying to tell her he has to pee, settling instead on just slipping out of bed, tucking her back in, and heading to the bathroom.

Abbie waits until he is out of the room to chuckle at his seemingly unflappable manners.

Then she peeks at the clock, wonders if Irving has been trying to reach her through her cell phone, and closes her eyes again. After a minute, she hears the shower turn on. She turns over, allowing herself the brief forbidden indulgence of inhaling his scent from his pillow.

_His possibly-not-dead wife is a witch. You are playing with fire, Girl._

xXx

The pattern continues for the next several nights; sometimes the nightmares are Abbie's, sometimes they are Crane's.

After a week of bed-hopping and interrupted slumber, Abbie waits for him in the hallway while he's finishing in the bathroom.

"Miss Mills?" he asks, puzzling at her standing there with her hands on her hips.

"This is stupid," she declares.

"What is?"

"Well," she pauses, momentarily losing her nerve. The Official Statement she had prepared flees at the sight of those bright blue eyes, always full of protective concern for her. She takes a deep breath and gathers her wits. "We always wind up together anyway. Why don't we just… start out that way and try for a full night's sleep? I mean, I know I would certainly welcome a night where _one_ of us isn't screaming in terror…"

_Screaming for other reasons wouldn't be so bad, though…_

_Shut. Up._

"That does make sense," he says, the corner of his lips twitching up into a slight smile. "Worth a try, anyway."

"Okay. Um, yes. So. I'm just going to go in here. I don't know if you were heading to bed or not yet, but…" she stammers. There is no avoiding the awkwardness of inviting a man into one's bed to do nothing but sleep.

Not just _a_ man; _this_ man.

"I was," he says. They regard one another a few seconds longer in the hallway. Abbie lingers, a little uncertainly, near her doorway, looking up at Crane, who seems to be waiting patiently for her to make the next move, his ramrod-straight posture never faltering.

"Okay," she finally says, turning and heading into her room.

He follows, closing the door behind him. The soft _click_ of the latch draws Abbie's eyes in the direction of the door, but she congratulates herself for not jumping.

 _I feel like I'm about to leap out of my skin. But why? We're not_ doing _anything. Just sleeping. Protecting one another in slumber, the same as we've been doing for the past week._

_Somehow it's different, though, starting out together. It feels more like a want instead of a need._

She lies down in bed and he slips in beside her. She switches off the lamp.

"Good night, Crane," she says. "Sleep well."

"Good night, Miss Mills. Please sleep well also."

Less than a minute later, she feels his hand reaching for her, pulling her against him, into his arms.

Her unbidden smile is hidden in the dark, but there is worry behind it. Abbie knows that she cannot truly allow herself to enjoy his embrace.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asks quietly.

"Don't mind what?"

"This," he squeezes her a little, demonstrating what he means.

"No, I don't mind," she says. _To be honest, I like it more than I should._

"I find your close proximity… comforting. Forgive me for not explaining myself earlier, but it is no accident that I've held you close every night."

 _So he did know, even on that first night,_ she realizes. "Your proximity is comforting to me, too," she whispers. "I think that might be what keeps the nightmares away."

"Possible. Not a hypothesis I wish to test, however," he says.

"No, I think I'm good going on faith for this one," she chuckles.

"Good night, Lieutenant," he whispers. She can feel the warmth of his breath against her hair.

"Good night," she answers.

For the first time in longer than either of them can remember, they both sleep the entire night without waking.

For any reason.


	6. Chapter 6

A person never truly _knows_ another person until they live together.

Abbie learns that Crane has become a junkie for peanut butter ever since she shared that package of peanut butter cups with him several weeks ago. She recently caught him standing in the kitchen, open jar in one hand, spoon in the other, with a look of guilty surprise on his face. And peanut butter in his beard.

Crane learns that Abbie can sing. He puzzles at her choice of material, but he enjoys the sound of her voice nevertheless.

Crane learns that Abbie is an excellent cook, when she has the time. Abbie learns that Crane is an excellent eater.

Crane takes a little longer in the shower than what Abbie feels is necessary, but she lets it slide because a nice hot shower is still a novelty to him.

Abbie has too many bottles and tubes littering the bathroom for Crane's taste, but since he doesn't know exactly what they're all for (and because she lets him live there), he doesn't complain.

He also knows that they have something to do with the velvet-soft texture of her skin, of which he has grown very fond. If he was willing to admit that point, that is.

And then there is the evening when Abbie learns that Ichabod Crane is ticklish.

It actually started with ice cream. And fuzzy pants.

And, of course, Famine.

Another Horseman threatened to unleash his fury on Sleepy Hollow, much like Pestilence's attempt, and Abbie and Ichabod wound up spending two days dealing with a high school that at first thought they were dealing with an anorexia outbreak. _Trend_ might be a better word for it, as it is not contagious. Three dead teenagers (a Goth girl, an oboe player in the band, and a football player, none with any history of body issues or depression) and another trek through the forest later, Famine was vanquished the same as his predecessor.

So, naturally, Abbie needed ice cream. Drumsticks, specifically. The chocolate-chocolate-chocolate kind.

They had just gotten home. Crane plopped himself down on the sofa, his Revolutionary War-era frock coat still on (he was fine with the modern clothes, but insisted on keeping the coat. And he occasionally wears the boots as well, since Abbie did declare them "hot"). Abbie headed straight for the kitchen and the refrigerator, hoping.

She opens the freezer door. One carton of store-brand vanilla, almost empty.

"Shit," she mutters under her breath. _Why was I keeping three spoonfuls of ice cream? Oh, because I've been too busy keeping the damn world from ending._

"Did you say something, Miss Mills?" Crane asks.

She steps out and sees his head dropped back against the edge of the couch, his eyes closed.

"I did, but you don't want to know what it was," she answers.

"Cursing again, then," he mutters, not opening his eyes. Not asking, either. That was another thing he's learned about her.

"I was looking for ice cream, and I don't have any. Not enough, anyway," she frowns and grabs her keys.

"Oh," he answers. "Ice cream?"

"It's a dessert. I'm going to get some."

"Now? Surely you should rest, Lieutenant," he says, finally opening his eyes. His normally keen blue eyes are tinged with red from too many hours awake and not enough asleep.

"If I sit down, I'll never get up again and then I won't get the chocolate drumsticks I want."

 _Chocolate… drumsticks…_ The two seemingly-unrelated words rattle around inside Crane's mind. He blinks at her.

"You can stay here, if you like," she says. She passes him the remote for the TV. "You remember how to use this?"

"Yes, of course," he says. "But I was wondering if I might have that other item… the iPad. I'd like to read some more, I think. I just started reading about Abraham Lincoln, and I'd very much like to continue."

"Sure, let me grab it," Abbie says, heading to her room where it's plugged into its charger.

She realizes that she didn't suggest he get some sleep. She also realizes that he didn't say he wanted to sleep.

_Because you won't be here to protect him._

"Here you go," she says, handing him the device. He's taken to it much more than her laptop. He likes being able to touch the screen and move the page around.

Crane is very tactile, she's learned.

Occasionally her mind runs away with that particular thought until her conscience throws a lasso out and pulls it back from the gutter.

She watches a moment, making sure he finds the page he's looking for before she leaves the house.

 _"Not that I don't trust you, but you would probably have an aneurysm if I told you how much that thing costs, so don't go trying to take it apart or anything,"_ she had warned him when she first introduced him to the gadget.

Then she had to briefly explain what an aneurysm was.

"I'll be back soon. Do you need anything? There's a new jar of peanut butter in the cabinet."

"Ah, very good. Then, no."

"Take your coat off, Crane," she says, reaching down to squeeze his shoulder as she walks past. She finds the shoulder muscle beneath the coat to be surprisingly firm, thicker than she was expecting for one so lean.

"Hmm," he grunts noncommittally, and she sighs.

_He's gone. Absorbed. When I come home, he's still going to be sitting there in his coat._

xXx

"I bought you something at Wal-mart," she announces on her return, closing the door behind her. Locking it.

_Like that's going to keep out a demon._

"Crane…" she sighs. He's still sitting in his coat. She puts her bags down and marches over to him.

"Ah, Miss Mills," he looks up, smiling a little at the sight of his petite partner, standing there with her hand on her hips. "I like Mr. Lincoln a lot."

"I had a feeling you would," she says. "Unfortunately, I _also_ had a feeling that you'd still be sitting here in your damn coat when I came back."

He looks down at himself. "Oh."

"And I bought you a present."

"Oh," he says, brighter. "That wasn't necessary, Miss Mills," he says, setting the iPad aside and standing. He takes his coat off and goes to hang it in the closet.

Abbie likes that he's not a slob.

He finds her in the kitchen, bending down to put the Drumsticks into the freezer at the bottom of her fridge. "They were on sale. In the bag on the table," she says, trying not to make a big deal over it. They _were_ on sale, but the truth is, she couldn't resist getting them for him.

He opens the bag and pulls out a pair of soft pajama pants, fuzzy like the ones she has. They are bright blue with the Superman logo all over them.

"Oh…" he breathes, feeling them, rubbing the soft material between his long fingers. "Thank you, Miss Mills. They're… wonderful. But what do these 'S' symbols stand for?"

"Um, Superman," she says, chuckling. "He's a superhero. A fictional character with superhuman powers."

He cocks an eyebrow at her.

"Take that however you like," she shrugs. "I mainly bought them because they were soft and fuzzy and I was afraid that you were going to try to steal mine one day."

He laughs, still holding the pants. "Miss Mills, I could never get into your trousers."

Abbie coughs, choking on nothing. "Excuse me," she says, turning to get a drink of water. _I really need to teach him what a double entendre is before I wind up having a stroke._

"Are you all right?" he asks, his voice full of concern.

"Fine. Go try those on and then I'll introduce you to the world of ice cream," she says.

He smiles and heads back to his room. It's still his room, still where he does everything anyone does in their bedroom apart from sleeping.

Abbie follows, turning instead into her own room, where she finally sits, flopping down on her bed, allowing herself a moment of silence. Peace.

Then her eyes start to drift, and she sits up. _Change clothes. Ice cream._

"Miss Mills, you have my most heartfelt thanks," Crane announces, meeting her in the hallway.

"You are very welcome," she answers, smiling at him in the brightly-colored pajama bottoms and his gray t-shirt. She's also changed into comfortable clothes, and they're both ready for ice cream and a night in.

They're also both hoping they don't get a phone call from Irving. Neither speaks that hope for fear of jinxing it.

"Should we not have dinner first?" he asks, watching as she retrieves two items wrapped in shiny white paper from the box in the freezer.

"Life is short," she says. "And I'm feeling lazy tonight. Frozen pizza all right?"

"Yes, that's fine." He takes his ice cream from her. She's opened one end for him, since he continues to have difficulty with packaging.

Abbie preheats the oven and opens her Drumstick, crunching through the chocolate encapsulating the ice cream. "Mmm."

Crane watches her, transfixed. He still hasn't tried his. And now he is quite distracted watching Abbie enjoy hers, watching the way her eyes close blissfully when she takes a bite, how her small pink tongue reaches forward to lick the exposed ice cream.

"What do you think?" she asks.

 _Beautiful_ is the first word that leaps to Crane's mind. "Oh," he mutters, taking a bite. "Oh, it's cold!" he exclaims. "But… so good…" his voice lowers to a rumble, similar to the time he first tried a doughnut hole. But better.

He takes another bite, then another.

"Crane…" she warns, but it's too late.

"Aahh…" he groans, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. "What…?"  
"You have to eat ice cream slowly," she says. "Otherwise the coldness does… that," she waves her hand in the direction of his head. "It's called brain freeze."

"Bloody hell," he finally says. "Excuse me, Lieutenant."

She smirks, secretly loving that he feels the need to apologize for cursing in front of her, though to her American ears, it's not even a curse. Not to mention she's said far worse in front of him.

The oven beeps, indicating that it's finished preheating. "Hold this," she says, handing him her cone while she puts the pizza in the oven.

She sets the timer and they return to the living room to finish their cones.

Crane decides that he very much likes ice cream. Abbie decides that she very much likes watching Crane discover new things, _especially_ things he likes. His childlike innocence in discovery is both fascinating and endearing.

After dinner, in which Abbie eats two slices of pizza and Crane eats the other six, they return to the couch. Abbie flips on the television and begins to surf while she and Crane sit like bookends.

The Food Network is showing something they've already seen. Frowning, she puts on House Hunters, which she enjoys, even though it gives Crane fits. He can't get over the greed, the excess. And the prices.

Abbie shifts, tucking her feet up beside her on the couch. Crane adjusts as well, stretching his long legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankles.

It is then that Abbie notices that Crane is barefoot. "Jeez, Crane, your feet are a mess," she blurts, immediately wishing she could swallow the words back in.

"I beg your pardon!" he exclaims, slightly offended. "My feet are perfectly clean. I'll have you know that as a soldier, I…"

"Whoa, whoa, back the truck up there," she interrupts his tirade before it becomes a lecture. "I didn't mean that they're dirty. I mean they need a little… help."

"Help?" he asks, holding one foot aloft.

"Well, look at mine," she says, stretching her leg toward him.

He looks, though he remembers perfectly well what her small brown foot looked like from that first night in the hallway.

"Surely you're not suggesting I paint my toenails," he says, staring at her foot. Her skin looks soft, flawless, even touchable. She's repainted her nails a curious bright blue.

"Of course not," she says. "Just… just wait here." She stands and disappears for a minute or two, leaving Crane to contemplate his feet.

_What's wrong with them? They are perfectly serviceable. True, they aren't the attractive appendages that Miss Mills seems graced with, but they're just feet. Tools for walking._

He hears Abbie running water in the kitchen, and a few minutes later, she comes in with a large rectangular plastic tub and a towel. She sets them near his feet.  
"In," she says, tapping his shin.

"In?"

"Your feet. In the water. I'm going to give you a pedicure."

"A what?"

"A pedicure. You'll love it, trust me. Now roll those trouser legs up and put those big boats in the tub," she orders waving her hand at his feet.

"Boats?" he mutters, blinking with amused surprise, watching as she disappears for a minute once again.

He pulls his trouser legs up over his knees and dutifully places his feet into the water. It's very warm, almost hot. It already feels good.

Somewhere in the back of his mind it registers that Miss Mills attending his feet might be a bit… intimate. But he's honestly too bone-weary and exhausted right now to spend the energy worrying about it.

"Oh, honestly, you can paint the damn walls," Abbie says to the television, sitting down on her end of the couch with a handful of small instruments. "They always complain about wall color, and that's the easiest thing to change."

"Indeed," he says, just going with it.

She snorts, knowing he's humoring her.

She spreads a towel across her knees, and motions for him to give her one of his feet.

As she works, the television is forgotten. Abbie concentrates on her task. Crane concentrates on Abbie.

"Detective Morales does not trust me," he says suddenly.

"Detective Morales doesn't trust anybody," she says. "Let me know if I hurt you."

He nods. "It must be a lonely existence for him, if that is indeed the truth," he says. Her small hands are surprisingly strong. "Who does this for you?"

"I do," she says. "And why do you think Luke doesn't trust you?"

"He goes out of his way to avoid me. Whenever he must converse with me, I can see the contempt bubbling just beneath the surface of his bearing."

"Hmm," she says, running a large emery board across his heel, scowling at it.

"And I heard him say something to that effect to Captain Irving," he finally admits.

She smiles. "Don't worry about Luke. He's… naturally suspicious." Now she frowns.

"Is that why the two of you are no longer betrothed?" he asks.

She stops what she's doing. "We were never 'betrothed,' all right? We… dated. I guess in your terms, he 'courted' me for a while. But there was never talk of marriage."

His brow furrows. "Well, that's hardly noble. What were his intentions if not matrimony, I wonder? And do not think that I failed to notice you did not answer my question, Lieutenant."

"I don't want to talk about it," she mutters, returning to his foot. Retreating back into her shell.

He is quiet for a moment, unsure how to proceed. "You do not need to hide from me, Miss Mills," he says at length. His voice is soft. Almost tender.

"I'm not hiding," she protests.

"I beg to differ. I also beg you not to close yourself off from me. We are partners, are we not? Connected by fate since before time was recorded. We must… trust one another."

She looks up at him, several options of what to say next playing through her mind. She could ask him about Katrina, why he never speaks of her. Fighting fire with fire.

She could continue to argue that she's not hiding behind the wall she's erected around herself, the wall she uses to keep everyone at arms' length. But that would be a lie.

She could give in, and trust him.

It's not like she has much of a choice in the matter, anyway.

"I do trust you," she admits quietly, reaching for a bottle of lotion. It's thick, utilitarian, heavy-duty stuff she uses in the winter when all she does is itch.

"Oh, really?" he asks, half-amused. "You've got an interesting way of showing it, if I may say."

"You may not," she says, smirking despite herself. "All right. You really want to know why Luke and I broke up?"

He pauses, as if he's actually thinking about the question. "Yes, if you are willing to tell me."

"He thought I was cheating on him," she says, rubbing the lotion into his foot, which is now much smoother, nails neat, calluses subdued.

"Cheating? Oh, that feels good…"

"Being unfaithful to him. Seeing other men apart from him. In a romantic way," she explains.

"You would _never!_ " he gasps, affronted for her.

"Thank you," she says. "He was suspicious of every man I spoke with. Sheriff Corbin. Captain Irving. Larry at the doughnut shop. My leaving for Quantico was… convenient, I guess. It was a good excuse to break it off, since he wouldn't believe that I wasn't seeing anyone else." She stops. Suddenly his attitude towards Crane pulls into sharp focus. _He's still jealous. He's jealous of Ichabod Crane._

"But surely, as a detective, he should be observant enough to know…"

"Yeah, but in matters of the heart, sometimes one's judgment isn't always completely sound," she says, smirking at him again. "Other foot, please."

"Touché, Miss Mills," he says swinging his other foot up into her lap while bending his knee to move the completed one out of the way.

_He's very graceful for one so tall and lanky._

"All right. Now it's your turn," she says. "I propose a trade. I've given you something, now you give me something." Now she is thankful that he doesn't get double entendres.

However, the smirk that briefly crosses his face gives her pause, as if somewhere deep down, he may be hiding just as big a gutter-mind as hers.

"What would you like to know?" he asks.

"What's the deal with Katrina? You always change the subject when I bring her up."

He sighs. _I suspected that's what she was going to ask._ "I've been trying to process my feelings about her. Us. Our marriage. She never told me she was a witch. As it turns out, she was quite a powerful one at that. I… I cannot help but wonder… did she _truly_ love me or was I just…"

"A pawn?" Abbie quietly supplies. She'd actually been wondering much the same thing, just based on the small amount of information she'd gleaned.

"Yes. Did she know that it was I who was fated to behead the Hessian, that it was I who had been chosen to be one of the two Witnesses? Did she… orchestrate our courtship so that she could see to it that I did my duty?"

Abbie nods sympathetically, but really doesn't know what to say. "I'm sure that even if she was… doing _her_ duty by seeing to it that you did yours… that she grew to love you, Ichabod," she finally says, deciding that now is as good a time as any to use his first name. "Even if she might not have at first, or didn't intend for it to happen."

"She was certainly convincing if she didn't," he says, somewhat to himself. Then he seems to remember that Abbie is there, and his cheeks redden slightly. "I—"

"Crane, don't apologize," Abbie says. "You're not scandalizing me, I promise. Things are different now in that regard. _Very_ different."

"Oh," he says. Then, realization dawning… " _Oh!_ " He blushes again, and Abbie bites back her chuckle.

"So you're feeling… a little betrayed? Used? And it… bothers you, because you're an intelligent man, and you had no idea?" she asks, directing the conversation back.

"I think so. Katrina visits me sometimes, in dreams, as you know. She helps when she can. I… saw her, when I was in hospital."

"Yes, I remember," Abbie says. She also remembers the little twinge of jealousy she felt at it, at hearing him recount how he could touch her, kiss her, hold her.

It's the same twinge she's fighting back right now, in fact, just listening to him speak of her.

"Quite right," he says, nodding. "I am having difficulty reconciling my feelings of betrayal with the love that still lingers for her. Though I know she is likely lost to me forever."

"That's understandable. I thought I loved Luke," she admits.

"Did you?"

She shrugs. "Luckily, I never said it. Neither did he. Good thing, too, because about the time I was beginning to think I did, he started freaking out on me."

"Freaking out," he repeats, trying out the words. "I like that. It's very… descriptive."

"And versatile, you'll find," she says.

They are quiet for a few more minutes, both lost in their thoughts. Abbie is thinking about Crane and Katrina. Crane is thinking about Miss Mills and Detective Morales.

"Miss Mills?" he asks.

"Hmm?"

"Why do you think Katrina would likely have grown to love me, even if that wasn't her original intent?"

_What? Seriously? He wants me to answer that?_

"Why do you think Luke gives you the stink-eye every time he sees you talking to me?" she counters, opting for a diversionary tactic she knows won't work. He's far too sharp.

"You must answer my question first, as I was the one who first posed my query."

_Did he really just pull out the "I asked you first" on me?_

She sighs. "Because you're a good man, Crane. You're… chivalrous and kind. Um, smart. Very smart. Honestly, you're probably the smartest person I've ever met." Her voice is soft, and her eyes are trained on his foot as she massages lotion into it. "And you're noble. Not noble like I-learned-to-track-while-hunting-foxes noble; noble like you always try to do the right thing, even if it is not best for _you._ And you're not exactly ugly, either," she finally admits.

"Hmm," he ponders her answer, giving nothing away. "Detective Morales gives me the… "stink-eye"… another good phrase, that,… because he is worried about you. He still harbors romantic inclinations towards you, even if you do not feel the same anymore… do you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Not at all," she says. Her hands are still, but his foot remains in her lap, resting on the towel there.

"He cares about you. And he does not trust me because I was a suspect in Sheriff Corbin's murder, a murder that, in his mind, is still an unsolved case. He also doesn't believe that I'm a professor on leave from Oxford, even though that is, in fact, true. To a point," he chuckles. "Oh, and he likely believes that you and I are romantically involved."

And it's out. The elephant is in the room again, parking its big pink elephant backside on the couch between them. He trumpets loudly, demanding attention.

"He's got a jealous streak a mile wide," Abbie says quietly, addressing Crane's last point but not.

"Indeed."

"It's over between us. For me, anyway."

"You do not need to explain yourself to me, Miss Mills."

"Yes, I do," she says. "You were the one saying we need to trust each other. You opened those floodgates, Crane."

He nods, "I understand, and I believe you."

A moment later, he speaks again. "So… you find me handsome, then?"

"I never said that," she says, caught. _I thought I was safe when he didn't say anything._

"Not in so many words," he points out.

"Oh, is the great Ichabod Crane insecure about his looks?" Abbie teases, unthinkingly running her fingertip up the sole of his foot.

He jumps and yelps.

"Oh, is the great Ichabod Crane _ticklish?_ " she goads, but he jerks his large foot out of her grasp before she can do any further damage.

"I'll thank you to keep that information to yourself," he says, trying not to smile.

"Hey, what happens in this house, stays in this house," she quips, knowing the reference will be completely lost on him.

"Agreed," he says, not realizing that Abbie has just fed the elephant in the room. Again.

xXx

That night, Katrina visits Crane in his dreams. Understandably, he's a little nervous, given his recent sleeping arrangements with Abbie.

And his earlier confession. He doesn't know how much Katrina sees or hears when he's awake.

"Katrina…"

"You do not need to explain yourself, Ichabod," she says, hovering just out of reach, like usual. "Abigail Mills is your fellow Witness. Your partner in this time. The fact that you find solace in her arms, just as she does in yours, is neither a mistake nor a coincidence."

"I'm… confused. I do not like being confused."

"I know, my love. You must follow your heart where it leads you. It is your salvation," she says, stepping forward. Yet somehow, she is still out of his reach.

"Is this why you've come to me tonight?"

"Only in part," she says. "All Hallows' Eve is approaching."

"Yes," he nods. He's been worried about it. Honestly he'd been hoping that the occasion would go un-marked, that All Hallows' Eve would be a forgotten event.

However, he'd found that just the opposite had happened. It had been turned into a farcical holiday, merely an excuse for children to dress in costumes and be given confections.

"The demon will be at hand. You must be vigilant," she says, starting to back away into the mist.

"Katrina…"

"Ichabod, remember: it is at its weakest point on All Hallows' Eve…"

"Katrina!"

xXx

Crane slowly wakes, unsure of the time. He hovers in the half-and-half, that moment between sleeping and wakefulness, relishing the floating, warm feeling.

His limbs start to stir and he becomes slowly aware of the small body of Miss Mills wrapped in his arms, her narrow back against his chest, her round backside nestled into his groin, her delicate feet tucked between his calves.

He doesn't even notice the tickle of her hair against his neck anymore. In fact, he would miss it if it were absent.

Crane's mind drifts back to his dream, to the warning Katrina gave him. And the strange sort of… blessing over his current _situation_ with Miss Mills.

He doesn't know what else to call it.

He stubbornly keeps his eyes closed, unwilling to admit that he is awake. Unwilling to abandon Miss Mills in her slumber.

Unwilling to release her from his embrace.

His right hand flexes, and his fingers register something soft and warm. _Where is my hand?_ He does it again, squeezing the softness. His thumb sweeps across, investigating.

When it encounters a small, hard nub as it tracks the surface, when he hears a soft sigh escape Miss Mills' throat, he has his answer.

_Oh, dear. Oh, no. This cannot be. This will not do. This… feels so… nice…_

_No. You are a gentleman, Ichabod Crane, and you will remove your hand before Miss Mills wakes._

He carefully, slowly moves his hand, placing it back around her waist. Only then does he crack an eye open to check the time. It's 5:10 a.m. He closes his eye again, willing his body's physical reaction to its unintentional discovery of Miss Mills' nearly perfect breasts to abate. Well, technically, breast.

_Sleep, Crane. Do not wake her._

Abbie feels him relax behind her. She woke up ten seconds after he did, but kept still, playing possum.

She immediately knew where Crane's hand was. She also knew that if she let him know she was awake, it would make things worse.

Then he had to go and investigate. He had to go and _move that damn thumb_. The sigh had escaped, but she kept the whimper that had wanted to accompany it bound and gagged in the corner.

Then she wonders what takes him so long to move his hand.

Then when he finally does, she finds she wants him to put it back.

When he settles back down again, she knows that he didn't realize she was awake.

 _May as well try for some more sleep as well_.

She tells herself she did not feel his arousal against her backside.

She tells herself he was probably thinking she was Katrina.

She tells herself these things, but she knows she is lying.


	7. Chapter 7

"I saw Andy," Abbie shakily announces, a bag from Subway in her hand and a cardboard drink tray in the other. She'd gone to grab lunch for them, leaving Crane in the archives to continue poring over Corbin's notes and old, dusty tomes from the library, trying to discern the meaning in Katrina's final warning from his dream two nights ago. They've done little else since then.

It's October 31. And Abbie looks like she's just seen a ghost.

That's probably because she thinks she has.

"You saw Lieutenant Brooks? Alive?" Crane's head snaps up from the sheaf of paper he was studying. "I suppose anything is possible, given the current circumstances."

"I was driving back here and saw him. At the edge of the forest. I don't think he saw me. I hope not," she says. "Here. I got you a meatball sub. It's like… a pizza sandwich."

"No jalapeños?" he asks, cocking an eyebrow at her.

"No jalapeños," she confirms. Then she hands him his bag of chips, smiling at how his eyes light up at the sight of the little yellow bag.

"He didn't look right," she says, tucking into her Buffalo chicken. "His neck was all…" she waves her hand back and forth in front of her neck, searching for the right word, "…loose. Like there was extra skin all bunched up in front."

"It likely was stretched out when his head was snapped back," Crane says. He takes a bite of his sandwich and does that groaning sound he makes when he likes something.

"Hanging behind his back like it was a backpack," Abbie adds, shuddering slightly. It amuses her, though, just a little, that they're both so easily able to discuss Andy's gruesome death while eating (and apparently, enjoying) lunch.

"Indeed," Crane agrees. "However, there must be some explanation for his… resurrection." He looks at her with that _look_ of his. That _you know what I mean_ look.

"Moloch," Abbie whispers. Crane nods. "I saw him… in the mirror of the cell where we found Andy…"

"I know," Crane confesses. They've never really discussed that day. "I caught just the barest glimpse of… _something_ … in the mirror as well, just before it cracked."

"Do you think…?"

"It would stand to reason. The demon would need human servants. Minions, if you will."

"Why would Andy agree to such a thing?"

"Desperation is the most likely reason," Crane says, crunching on a potato chip. "How well did you know Lieutenant Brooks?"

"Not as well as I thought I did, apparently," Abbie mutters. "He was quiet. Nice, but not terribly friendly, you know?"

"Mmm," he nods. "Solitary individuals often harbor secrets," he says, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Shut up," she smirks at him, and he bites back his grin. "So… why? If Moloch did bring Andy back, why?"

xXx

The sun had just slipped over the horizon when it came.

The first call. A mysterious death. A father, taking his children trick-or-treating, had dropped dead. He was perfectly healthy. None of the witnesses _claimed_ to have seen anything.

By the time everyone was back from the call, Crane was muttering and _aha-_ ing over a very old-looking journal.

"He did what?" Abbie asks, her brain unwilling to process what Crane has just told her, much less accept it.

"Moloch has opened the veil between our world and his," he repeats, his voice grave. "I feared that was his plan, but was afraid to speak my thought until I could find proof."

"'It is at its weakest point on All Hallows' Eve…'" Abbie repeats Katrina's words. "She was talking about the… boundary between the world of the living and the world of the dead."

"Yes. That was his purpose for resurrecting Lieutenant Brooks. He needed a sacrifice to open the veil."

"Ugh," Abbie shudders, still haunted by the memory of seeing Andy, her friend whom she thought was dead, now little more than a grotesque pawn. "Poor Andy," she mutters, unable to help herself.

"Yes, well your 'poor Andy' knew what he was signing up for when he aligned himself with a demon," Crane says brusquely. Abbie purses her lips, chastised, but says nothing. "And now his final act of betrayal to mankind was to aid his demon puppetmaster in unleashing all manner of unholiness on Sleepy Hollow," he finishes, waving one hand in the air, nearly shouting. Frustrated.

Then he notices her frown, her downcast eyes. _She is trying to hide her hurt from me._ "Lieutenant," he says softly, his voice reaching that velvety rumble that has been turning her insides to jelly lately, "I, too, am sorry for Andrew. He may _not_ have realized the full ramifications of his actions. And I apologize for speaking harshly to you."

"It's okay. You're right," she sighs, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. "You usually are. But right now, we need to figure out how to… how to what? Close the veil?"

"Precisely. And that is quite a large problem," he says, leaning back in his chair.

"You don't know how," she says, worried.

"No, I know how. The problem is since a human sacrifice was made to open the veil, another must be offered to close it."

"Shit," she mutters.

"Indeed," he agrees.

xXx

They head for the forest, since that's where Abbie saw Andy. And that seems to be where everything goes down, anyway. It's where she and Jenny first saw Moloch when they were girls. It's where they've ended up practically on every case, every demon they've chased down.

There is _something_ about this damn forest. And it's really starting to get on Abbie's nerves.

She pulls the car to the side of the road. "Here. This is where I saw him. By that boulder," she points.

"Let's go," Crane says, climbing out of the car.

They enter the forest, in the dark, flashlights in hand, Abbie with her gun at the ready.

Crane finds footprints here and there, but they're difficult to follow in the dark. Soon they stop moving, not lost, but stymied.

"We need a plan," Abbie says. "Something _other_ than wandering around the forest in the dark. We may as well be calling, 'Here, demon, demon.'"

"Quite," Crane agrees, looking around, his senses alert. "I wonder if—"

"Shh," Abbie says suddenly. "Listen."

He listens. Then he hears it, whisper-soft, almost as if the wind blowing through the trees is speaking.

" _Ichabod_ …"

"That's a wom—"

"That's Katrina," Crane cuts her off.

" _Ichabod_ …"

"This way," he says.

"Wait, we're following?" Abbie says, trailing behind him, stumbling slightly. He reaches back for her hand, clasping her cold fingers with his warm ones.

"She's guiding us," he says.

"Hopefully not to our deaths," she mutters. She would never tell Crane, but she doesn't completely trust his not-quite-dead wife. _Probably something to do with the fact that she totally used him and seems completely remorseless about it. As far as I can tell, anyway._

" _Ichabod_ …"

"It's getting louder," he says, pulling her slightly to the left.

They walk another 30 yards or so, then see it. A shimmer, with nothing but darkness beyond, like a curtain made of moonbeams, quivering in the night.

"Stay back," Crane whispers, placing himself slightly in front of Abbie.

"I appreciate your chivalry, but I've got the gun," she says, trying to move out from behind him.

"Your firearm will be of no use here, Lieutenant," he says, keeping her behind him.

They stand and watch as things that can only be described as wraiths occasionally fly out of the veil, zipping past at a frightening speed. Crane ducks as one whizzes past them a little closer than he'd like.

On the drive over, they heard two more calls reporting mysterious deaths. Abbie can only surmise that these ghosts are the cause.

"Where is Moloch?" Abbie asks.

"I doubt he's here. He's likely elsewhere, plotting. Collecting these wraiths, perhaps."

"What do we do now?" she asks, starting to feel afraid. They still haven't sorted out the whole human-sacrifice-to-close-the-veil issue, and Abbie is afraid Crane is getting Ideas. _If you think, for even one second, that I'm going to let you walk your skinny ass into that veil, you'd better think again, Crane._

He looks around. "Well…"

" _Ichabod_ …"

"Katrina?" he finally answers, stepping forward, out of the shelter of the trees. Abbie follows, and he turns. "Stay there."

"No," she answers, following. While his back is to the veil, a rather large wraith comes screaming out of the veil, barreling for them.

"Crane!" Abbie shoves him out of the way, but he pulls her with him, out of danger as well. Her foot connects with a tree root, gets caught, and she falls, landing with a damp thud on the leafy ground.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" he asks, unnecessarily straightening his coat, a bit on edge. He extends his hand down to her.

"I think so," she says, taking his hand and standing. "I just tripped on this—ow…" Her left ankle screams in protest when she tries to put weight on it.

"'Ow?' You're injured…" he puts his hand out automatically to steady her.

"I think I sprained my damn ankle," she huffs, more angry than hurt.

"I did tell you to stay put," he says, helping her to sit. "Stay low; it seems the wraiths tend to sail at about the level of my head." He briefly checks her ankle. "So even if you were standing, you'd likely be all right," he adds, smirking at her. Then he notices that Abbie is looking past him. Her face is curious, eyes wide, but she is not frightened.

"Crane," she says, pointing.

He turns. Katrina is standing ten feet away, between them and the veil.

She looks real. Solid. Alive.

"Katrina," he says, walking slowly over.

"Ichabod," she answers. "You found me."

"How are you here?" he asks, closing the distance between them. He reaches for her and finds that he can actually touch her.

Another wraith emerges from the veil. Crane sees it and steps quickly to one side, pulling Katrina with him.

"I was able to re-enter the world when the veil was opened," she says.

Abbie watches from her spot at the base of the tree. She can hear their conversation, and is conflicted. Her emotions are warring with her logic, but… something else is lurking beneath it all. _There's a reason she's here._

Crane pulls her into his arms, holding her tightly, basking in her familiar shape. He moves to kiss her.

"Ichabod," she speaks, pulling back before his lips can touch hers. "The veil must be closed."

"I will close it," he says.

 _NO!_ Abbie's mind screams. She starts to scramble to her feet when Katrina speaks.

"You will not," Katrina says, stepping back, out of his embrace. She holds both of his hands and looks up at him. "It is not your time. Your work is not finished here."

He says nothing for a moment.

Realization dawns on Abbie first, hitting her like a blow to the chest. _Oh, my God…_

"No, Katrina…" Crane says a moment later, finally understanding her intent.

"It is the only way," she says. "I do not belong in this time."

"Neither do I," he says, an unbidden tear slipping from his eye.

"Yes, Ichabod, you do. You feel out of sorts at present, but this is where you belong. _Our_ time is over," she says softly, her eyes flicking briefly to where Abbie is sitting, just behind him.

"There has to be another way," he tries, his voice breaking now.

"Crane!" Abbie shouts suddenly as yet another wraith comes towards them. He dodges it again, Katrina in tow.

Abbie breathes again.

"You know there is none," Katrina answers, releasing one of his hands to wipe a tear from his cheek. "Do not mourn me, for I will finally be at peace." She releases his other hand.

"Katrina…"

"Do not close your heart, Ichabod. It will be your salvation. Follow it where it leads you," she says, repeating her words from his dream the previous night. She reaches up and rests her hand on his chest, over his heart. "This will lead you to where you belong," she says, her eyes moving to rest on Abbie once again, longer.

It makes Abbie rather uncomfortable.

But not as uncomfortable as hearing Katrina's voice inside her head. _I know you will look after him. Love him as he does you._

Abbie's eyes widen. _WHAT?_

"Katrina, I will always l—"

"I must go," Katrina says, stopping his words, knowing that if he says them, it will only make things more painful for him. "The hour is approaching. I must close the veil before midnight or it will not close." She wipes another tear from Crane's face. "I did tell you not to mourn me," she chides softly, smiling at him.

"I cannot stop it," he whispers hoarsely. _Time is so short, so unfair._

Katrina takes another step back, and another, walking slowly. Crane holds her hand until their fingertips can no longer touch.

"Farewell. I go to my peace," she says. She smiles at Crane then looks at Abbie, holding her gaze for just a few moments before giving her a small nod. She turns away from them, walking steadily into the void, head held high.

Abbie watches, transfixed and impressed by the woman's bravery. One more wraith flies out just as Katrina disappears into the blackness. The shimmering shape collapses over her, dissipating into nothingness, and the last escaped wraith evaporates in a puff of smoke. It is black for about three seconds, then the forest returns where there was only nothingness before.

 _She didn't look back._ Abbie respects her for that. She's not sure _she_ could be that brave, faced with the same challenge.

Ichabod stands, still as a statue, staring into the space where Katrina disappeared. Almost as if he is waiting for her to reappear.

Abbie says nothing, letting him have his moment. She will wait all night if necessary. Her ankle is throbbing and her backside is cold, damp, and starting to feel a little flat and numb. But she will wait for him for as long as he needs.

Eventually, his shoulders sag, his head drops, and she thinks she sees his shoulders hitch with a sob.

It is then that she realizes her own face is wet with tears as well. She's not crying for Katrina, she's crying for Crane, for the sadness she knows he's feeling.

He lifts his head a moment later, his back as straight as ever as he swipes his hand across his face. He turns and strides over to Abbie, bending down to help her up.

He supports her as she limps along, but after a short distance, he stops them, stooping and lifting her into his arms.

She thinks about protesting, but doesn't have the energy for an argument she's not going to win anyway.

He walks easily, as if she is no burden to him at all, making his way through the forest while Abbie holds the flashlight.

They reach the edge of the forest where her squad car is waiting. He pauses beside the car.

"I'm okay to drive," Abbie says softly. Luckily, it's her left ankle that's sprained.

He sets her on her feet – foot – beside the driver's side door, waits until she opens the door then helps her into her seat.

Crane slides into the passenger seat, and she looks at him. _He looks lost. Like he doesn't know how to process what has just happened._

He says nothing, but leans over, reaching for her across the center console of the car.

Abbie isn't sure what he wants, but leans in to meet him anyway. He clutches her shoulder, pulling her closer, wrapping his arms around her as his head drops onto her shoulder. She holds him, her fingers in his hair as he clings to her. She can feel him fighting his grief, can feel him trying to be strong.

 _Do not mourn me_ , Katrina had said. Abbie realizes he's trying to do as she has bidden, but doesn't have the ability.

She drops her head against his, her cheek against his hair. "Let's go home," she whispers. Without thinking, she turns her face and kisses the top of his head.

He keeps his face tucked into her neck a few moments longer, then slowly releases her. He meets her eyes in the dark of the car, blinks once, and nods.

xXx

When they get home, she shoves him towards the bedroom, where he undresses and collapses into bed in just his underwear, unable to even muster enough energy to put on his pajamas.

Half-hopping, half-limping, Abbie quickly grabs a reusable ice pack from the freezer, takes some ibuprofen, and changes into her pajamas in the bathroom because she knows Crane is already in bed. She knows she needs to get in there quickly, because it may be a very long night.

He's nearly asleep when she joins him. She knows she needs to put some ice on her ankle for a while, so she sits up in bed with her iPad, ice pack on her ankle, Crane's head in her lap.

Abbie tries to play solitaire, something that doesn't take a lot of thought, but her eyes keep drifting to Crane, watching him sleep. Watching over him.

_Please, God, let him have a dreamless night._

It is a small prayer, but it is enough. Even when the ice pack is no longer cold and she sets the iPad aside, she lies awake in his arms, keeping watch. She hopes her presence will be enough to keep his nightmares away tonight.

She hopes, but isn't certain.

xXx

Abbie woke with a start, finding herself alone in her bed.

Their bed?

She drifted now and then, but mostly kept watch over Crane. Every time he moved, every little noise he made snapped her into full wakefulness.

She looks around the room, noting the barest hint of dawn starting to show through the curtains.

_I need to get some thicker curtains._

She is about to call out to him when she hears the flush of the toilet. Crane returns a minute later, now in a t-shirt along with his boxer briefs. He slips back into bed and wraps himself around her again.

"Miss Mills, you did not sleep," he says softly. "Do so now, please. It is my turn to watch over you."

Abbie's eyes close with a small sigh and she drifts to sleep almost immediately, secure in his embrace.


	8. Chapter 8

Ichabod Crane has never been predisposed to chatter, but in the days following Katrina's self-sacrifice, he was more taciturn than usual.

Abbie expected this, but instead of tiptoeing around him, she endeavored to retain whatever sense of normalcy they had achieved prior to Halloween.

At the station, Crane tended to stay down in the archives, reading, poring over ancient volumes and Corbin's notes. Abbie spends time with him there when she can, but can't neglect her "normal" police work entirely. She abuses Captain Irving's good nature enough already. As she watches him devour tome after tome, she wonders how much his amazing brain can actually hold.

A great deal, as it turns out. He's quickly becoming a walking encyclopedia of the occult and the apocalypse.

At home, he spends most of his time with Abbie's iPad, reading American history, catching up on the 232 years he missed while buried in that cave.

Abbie, however, notices small changes in him no one else would see. He stands closer to her when they are standing or walking, often tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow or gently escorting her with a light hand on the small of her back. When he says "Miss Mills" or "Lieutenant," the timbre of his voice seems softer. More tender.

And he's even more protective of her than before. She can see the worry behind his eyes when she goes out on a call, even if it is for something she could handle in her sleep.

 _He's afraid he's going to lose me, too,_ she realizes. The thought is sobering, but she finds a strange sort of comfort in it as well.

He holds her as close as ever at night in their bed, their sanctuary from the world.

At least that's how it feels to Abbie. Some nights she cannot wait until it's late enough to go to bed, just to lie in his embrace and hide from the world. She wonders if – hopes that – Crane feels the same way.

Crane has thrown himself into study as a way to escape, a way to cope. Facts are stalwart, grounding him in this strange new world into which he's been thrown. History is a comfort. He can trust books.

He can trust Abbie.

He knows he's withdrawn somewhat from her since Katrina gave her life for theirs. Even so, he cannot help but admire her fortitude, her determination to keep going. Deep down, he knows she does it for him.

The fact that she doesn't coddle him in his mourning is surprisingly helpful. Reassuring, in a sense.

Crane is not one who wallows; he is one who thinks. And lately his thoughts have been on Miss Mills. And Katrina. And Miss Mills. And Katrina's final words to him. Final words he's fairly certain are _about_ Miss Mills.

Some nights in bed it is she who holds him. One night he quietly cried into her shoulder, gradually soaking her t-shirt (the nights had grown colder and she'd switched from tank tops to t-shirts) until he fell asleep, his head on her shoulder and her fingers in his hair.

The next morning she made no mention of what had transpired, greeting him with a cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and toast when he had emerged from the shower. In that moment, he knew she understood him.

xXx

The Saturday before Thanksgiving, Abbie finds Crane sitting at the kitchen table, contemplating a square of lace folded in front of him.

"Are you hungry?" she asks, her hand resting on his shoulder briefly as she passes.

"Mmm," he grunts noncommittally.

"That's a yes," she says. "I'll make you a grilled cheese sandwich. You like those."

He nods slightly, still looking at the lace, which Abbie now sees is a handkerchief.

She makes his sandwich, Colby-Jack cheese with a slice of tomato, the way he likes it. She places it next to his hand on the table along with a glass of apple juice (another favorite) and a bowl of grapes.

She brings her own plate to the table and sits across from him.

"Was that Katrina's?" she asks softly as he slides it to the side and pulls his plate in front of him.

"Yes. It is the only thing I have left of her," he says.

Abbie is a little surprised he is so forthcoming. _Of course, he's never kept anything from me before_. "It's beautiful," she says, admiring it from her place at the table. She does not touch it.

"She gave it to me when I went into battle," he explains between bites of his sandwich. "A Lady granting her favor, as it were," he adds, smiling a little.

It is a practice as old as time, Abbie knows this. She's always thought it rather sweet, in fact. She does wonder if Katrina somehow enchanted it to keep him safe, but doesn't ask.

"Perhaps a talisman," Crane says, almost under his breath, as if he is reading Abbie's thoughts.

"It was in your old clothes?" Abbie asks, then notices he's actually wearing his old clothes. He does that when he's feeling particularly homesick. Mindful of this tendency, she takes special care with these clothes so that they are clean and available should he want them, always washing them on the gentle cycle so they won't fall apart.

He nods, finishing his sandwich.

"Would you like another?" she asks.

"Do not go to any trouble," he says.

"That's another yes," she answers, standing and going to the stove again. "And it's no trouble."

"You are too good to me, Miss Mills," he says.

Her stomach wobbles a little when he says her name. It happens frequently now. She pretends to ignore it, putting his second sandwich in the frying pan.

"I'm just making your lunch," she answers softly, downplaying his sentiment.

"You know that is not what I meant."

Abbie doesn't know what to say to that. She meets his steady gaze for a moment, forgetting to breathe, then looks down and turns her attention to the stove, concentrating on making his sandwich.

She hears him shift in his chair behind her.

"I should like to place this in Katrina's grave," he says after she sets his second sandwich in front of him.

"You don't want to keep it?" Abbie asks.

"Her grave is empty. She has no remains, and…" he pauses, sighing, "…she would not want me to hold onto the past. I've already disobeyed her wishes by mourning her…"

"Mourning her was unavoidable, Crane," Abbie says. "She was your wife. Of _course_ you're going to mourn her."

"I know," he says, closing his eyes a minute. "Nevertheless, I cannot help but think that this is the right thing to do."

Abbie has finished eating and takes her plate to the sink. Then she heads to her bedroom closet and pulls out a box. It's shiny red flecked with gold, about four inches square, two inches high, and empty. She received a Christmas gift in it from Sheriff Corbin last year, but kept the box because it was too beautiful to toss. It's only thick cardboard, but it will suffice. She hopes.

She sets it on the table next to Crane. He's done eating, just setting his empty glass on the table.

"What is this?" he asks.

"A box," she simply says, taking his plate and glass and sets them in the sink with her plate.

"It's lovely," he says, sliding it towards himself. He lifts the lid. "Is this for…?"

"Yes. Sheriff Corbin gave me a gift in this box last Christmas. A monogrammed handkerchief, coincidentally. I kept the box to reuse one day because it was too pretty to throw away. I… would be honored if you'll use it for this," she says, biting her lip.

"Thank you," he answers softly, looking up at her, his eyes sad but grateful. He lifts the lace handkerchief and places it in the box.

Abbie drops him off at the church where Katrina's gravestone sits above a patch of nothing more than dirt.

"I'll come back in a bit," she says, knowing he needs to be alone. She decides to go to Starbuck's and get some coffee. _It's cold out today, he'll like something warm._

Crane takes the garden spade (less conspicuous than a shovel) and the red box containing the handkerchief. Abbie found a gold ribbon and he had tied that around it as well. He walks to the headstone and stands, box in one hand, spade in the other.

After a minute, once he's certain that he is quite alone, he kneels down onto the soft, cold ground. It still looks a bit disturbed from when he dug out the Horseman's head two months ago. As a result, he finds the digging quite easy.

Once he's dug deep enough to prevent the box from being accidentally uncovered, he lifts it to his lips, kisses it once, and places it in the ground. Then he piles the dirt over it, filling the hole he's made, and replacing the sod as best he can.

He stands and brushes his hands together, trying to get them clean. _I'll wash up properly when I get home._

Abbie, after stopping at the gas station and Starbuck's, pulls her car into the parking lot beside the church. The graveyard is in the back, so she gets out and walks around the building, leaving the coffees in the car so they stay warm.

"…I never got a chance to say goodbye, Katrina…"

Abbie hears Crane before she sees him. She slowly rounds the corner and sees him standing, hands clasped behind his back. _I'm too early._ She silently watches him, moved by the sadness emanating from him as he bends his head, talking to Katrina's spirit.

Her presence catches his periphery and he looks up sharply, making her jump just a little, startled out of the study she was making of him. Gathering her wits, Abbie gestures that she'll be in the car, and starts to turn.

"Stay," his voice is quiet, but rings clear as a bell through the cold, still autumn air.

She hovers, not sure if he wants her close or far. She decides to remain where she is.

"You bid me farewell, but I said nothing, and for that I most humbly apologize," Crane continues, his attention back on Katrina's grave. "You told me you would be at peace, and I believe you. I can neither imagine nor endure the thought of the torment you must have suffered when Moloch held you in Purgatory. You found your way out, and for that I should be thankful. You loved me in our time, and for that I _am_ thankful."

Abbie tries not to listen, but can't help it. There's no other sound. _And he told you to stay here. He doesn't mind if you hear him._ His openness with her continues to be a source of wonder for her, someone who has made a habit of keeping herself closed off to others. Sometimes, she wishes she could allow herself the same freedom.

"I will follow my heart, as you have bidden me. I know now that you are correct. I know it will not lead me astray. Like always, you knew before I did," he says, smiling slightly because he now knows why that was.

"Be at peace, Katrina. I will miss you, miss seeing you in my dreams. But I must learn to live in this fascinating time. I must move forward with what is now my life. Farewell, Wife."

He kisses his fingers, presses them to her name on the stone, and whispers something Abbie cannot hear. He wipes the tears from his face, takes a deep breath, and walks towards Abbie.

"Lieutenant," he greets her, smiling a very small smile. "Shall we go home?"

"I've got coffee in the car," she says, falling into step beside him, taking nearly two steps to every one of his long strides.

"You are a lifesaver," he says.

Abbie feels his hand on the small of her back as they walk to the car. She resists the urge to lean into him. _He just said his final goodbye to his dead wife, for crying out loud._

He opens her car door for her and she climbs in. He enters the car and she presents him with his latte with hazelnut and a bag of doughnut holes from the gas station.

"Thank you, Miss Mills," he says, setting the spade on the floor at his feet.

He eats a doughnut hole and makes that groaning noise.

_It's like porn, that sound._

_Stop it. Drive._

"What would you like for dinner?" she asks, scrambling for conversation.

"I have no preference," he says, drinking his coffee. "You remembered," he says, smiling.

"Your reaction to the hazelnut was pretty unforgettable," she says. "Would you like to go out for dinner?"

"Out?"

"To a restaurant. I have a hankering for some Chinese food."

"I can only assume that 'hankering' translates into something akin to 'desire,'" he says, arching an eyebrow at her.

_I think he's back._

_Ignore the way the word 'desire' sounds when he says it._

"You'll love it. It's good stuff," she says. "But it's a bit early, so I think we'll go home first."

"Mmm," he mumbles, his mouth full of doughnut hole. Stopped at a traffic light, she looks over at him. He has crumbs in his beard and a smudge of dirt on his cheek where he wiped his face with his dirty hand.

Before she realizes what she's doing, Abbie reaches up with her thumb and wipes the dirt from his cheek.

"Dirt," she whispers, dropping her hand as they stare at each other.

The light changes.

"I believe the light is green, Miss Mills," he says quietly, his eyes flicking briefly to the traffic signal.

"Oh," she says, pressing the accelerator, thankful that her police cruiser likely stopped the person in the car behind them from honking his horn.

_What the hell is your problem, Girl?_


	9. Chapter 9

"Come on, Crane, we need to get going if we're going to pick up Jenny on time," Abbie says, pulling her coat on.

Jenny still hadn't signed the paperwork that would get her released to Abbie's custody. Even if she had, she'd still be at the mental hospital until they got their court date, at which they'd have to prove that Jenny was fit enough to be looked after by Abbie and that Abbie was capable of caring for her "delusional" sister.

Abbie has spoken to Jenny on the phone several times since she returned to the hospital, and had asked twice about whether or not she'd signed it. The third time they spoke, Abbie no longer had the energy to ask. She knew the answer.

She also knew why Jenny was dragging her feet. The answer was in one word: custody. Jenny bristled at the fact that, technically, Abbie would be the one in charge.

And if she is completely honest, Abbie doesn't really blame her. She threw her own sister under the bus when they were kids. Even though Abbie has apologized (and apologized and apologized), Jenny needs time to forgive her.

So Abbie is looking forward to spending the afternoon with her sister, at her house, watching a little football and eating a lot of food.

Crane's presence will help, too. Jenny likes him, and he, her. They have a fair amount in common, and she is actually pretty civil to him. Also, Abbie thinks she secretly likes being called "Miss Jenny."

"I'm right here, Miss Mills," Crane's voice is surprisingly close.

"Damn, you're like a cat," she remarks, startling when she turns and he's _right_ there.

"After you, my lady," he says, his lips curving into a small smile as he follows her out the door.

That's another thing that has Abbie a little… jumpy. Crane. Since his visit to the cemetery, he's been his old self again, but not. It's like he's more relaxed than he was. More _himself._

He continues to devour information at a staggering rate, never ceasing in his research, but more and more he has moments where he's playful, almost silly, once leaving Abbie laughing so hard her sides ached.

More unsettling is the fact that he seems to be more openly… affectionate. Nothing inappropriate, of course, but occasionally he'll take her hand in his while they walk rather than offering his arm. Or he'll reach out and touch her hand, her arm, one time even her knee, while they discuss something.

And she's caught him staring once or twice. Just regarding her with those eyes of his, those sharp blue eyes that see most things and remember _every_ thing. When she catches him, he flushes and quickly directs his attention elsewhere.

The _most_ unsettling realization for Abbie is the fact that she finds she _likes_ these changes. Not unsettling so much as surprising. She finds herself reciprocating without thought, seeking out his hand sometimes, leaning closer to him when he's showing her something in a book, allowing her own eyes to linger on him from time to time.

She's accepted the fact she finds him attractive. He's a very handsome man, there is no arguing that point.

It would be easier to deal with the growing physical attraction if he wasn't so damned _charming_ as well. And brilliant. And trustworthy.

He opens her car door for her, as is his habit these days, and she climbs in. While he's walking around to his door, her cell rings. She doesn't recognize the number.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this Abigail Mills?"

"Yes, this is she."

"Miss Mills, this is Nurse Anna Pacetti. I'm calling on behalf of your sister Jennifer."

Crane climbs into the car and fastens his seat belt, his eyes trained on Abbie's worried face.

"Is something wrong?"

"I'm afraid Jenny won't be available to join you for Thanksgiving dinner. I'm sorry," the nurse says.

"Why? Is she sick? What's the matter?"

"She withdrew her request for a day pass last night, I'm afraid. She didn't give a reason."

"Can I talk to her?" She feels Crane's hand cover hers, squeezing gently. Automatically, she turns her hand, holding his, squeezing back.

"Um… I'm sorry, but she told me she doesn't want to be disturbed." The nurse sounds rather uncomfortable now.

"Of course she doesn't," Abbie snaps. "Sorry. It's not your fault. Thank you."

"I'm s—"

Abbie disconnects the call, cutting off the nurse's words. She didn't want to hear another apology followed by an empty "Happy Thanksgiving."

"Miss Jenny won't be joining us, will she?" he asks softly, but it isn't a question.

"No," she answers shortly, taking her hand from his, getting out of the car, slamming the door, and stomping back to the house.

Crane follows, not rushing after her. He knows she needs space. When he gets inside, he hangs up his coat, picks hers up from the chair where she'd flung it, and hangs it up as well. She's already back in the kitchen, busying herself.

He hovers, uncertain. He's never seen her quite this agitated. Not over something personal, anyway. He knows the sisters have some issues they need to work out between them, thus he's not sure he should intervene.

 _Best to simply let her know you are there for her._ "Miss Mills, do you require any assistance?"

"No," she says, not turning around. "I guess we'll have Thanksgiving with just you and me," she adds.

"I shall be in the living room if you require me for… anything at all," he says.

"I won't," she answers.

_Of course that is her answer._

Her slightly hunched shoulders coupled with the fact that she won't look at him stabs a little, but he retreats to the living room to continue trying to unravel the mystery of American football.

xXx

Dinner is a quiet affair. Abbie's mood seems to have improved, bolstered somewhat by her attempts at explaining football to Crane. He mostly understood what was going on, but he just could not get past the fact that it all seemed so _brutal._

In the end, she just gave up, throwing her hands in the air and declaring, "Either you get it or you don't."

After they eat, he helps her clean up. She had put the turkey carcass in a large pot of water on the stove for soup, and it's simmering away while they work.

Crane ate a remarkable amount of food, but there are still enough leftovers for the soup as well as turkey sandwiches.

The dishes are clean and dry, and Abbie is putting them away when Crane excuses himself to the bathroom for a moment.

All that remain are some larger serving pieces, stored in the higher cupboards because Abbie doesn't use them very often.

Sighing, she lifts a glass bowl to the cupboard above the stove, stretching up on her toes.

The bowl slips from her grasp and shatters all over the stovetop.

Abbie stares at the shards, unmoving. As if she's forgotten what to do. As if she's expecting the pieces of glass to reassemble themselves into their correct shape and return to her hands, whole and perfect.

As if each shard is a piece of her life, shattered in front of her.

She feels a fat tear roll down her cheek. And another.

 _Why is the kitchen rising? Oh…_ She then realizes the room is not rising. She's sinking to the floor. Sinking into herself, where it's safe.

"Miss Mills, is everything all right? I heard a crash," Crane calls as he hurries back to the kitchen. He pulls up short at the scene before him.

Abbie is sitting on the floor, her knees drawn up, her head on her forearms. He can't see her face, but can hear her crying.

He drops to his knees in front of her, mindful of the glass nearby. "Are you injured?" he asks softly, eyes scanning the glass littering the area, searching for droplets of blood.

She shakes her head "no" without lifting it.

"Miss Mills…" he says, realizing that something is very wrong with his partner. He reaches his hand across, gently touching her shoulder.

She shrugs it off.

"Go away," she says.

"Um… no, I do not think I will," he answers, withdrawing his hand. Instead he moves, sitting beside her on the tile.

"I'm fine," she tells him, still not looking up.

"I don't believe that you are," he says softly. "You are crying on your kitchen floor."

She looks up at him, her eyes watery. "I broke a damn bowl," she declares.

"I see that. Surely that is not the reason for your tears," he says. He wants to reach over and wipe away her tears, but doesn't move.

"Of course it isn't," she says, dropping her head again, hiding her face from him. "It's not because of Jenny, either. Not really."

"Will you tell me?" he asks.

She lifts her head. "I don't know why I'm crying, all right? I dropped the bowl, and I just…"

Crane waits, watching her, noting how small she looks, how fragile. She's curled into a little ball, closing herself off from everything. From him. He is surprised at how much this fact hurts.

"I…" she starts and stops, unsure how to proceed. "Everything just feels so out of control… so out of place…"

He raises his arm and slowly puts it around her shoulders. She stiffens for a moment, then slumps against him, allowing him to pull her closer against his side.

 _I'm here_ is the silent message, _and I am not going anywhere_.

"All this… apocalypse stuff… Corbin… Andy… Moloch… Katrina…" She sniffles again, lifting her head. "Jenny. _You…_ "

"I am sorry to be a part of your burden…" he starts.

"No… you're not a burden," she explains, touching his leg once, "you're just… _you._ I mean, I know it's much worse for you, but… from my side of things, you're a pretty big pill to swallow…"

"I know, and I am sorry…"

"Stop apologizing!" she says, raising her voice, frustrated. "You're not doing anything wrong, all right? You're just…" she trails off, stopping herself before she says something she can't take back. Something _meaningful._ She sighs. "It's just too much… I can't do this, Crane, I can't." She takes a shuddering breath and the tears start afresh.

"You can," he says softly. "You are honestly the strongest person I have ever met, and I admire you for it."

"I'm not strong… I'm a coward. Jenny's the strong one. She wasn't afraid to stand up and tell the truth, knowing she sounded crazy. I lied. I hid behind my fear."

"Ah, I see," Crane says with a small, knowing smile. "You are waiting for Miss Jenny to forgive you for your actions, but you have not yet forgiven yourself," he gently points out.

"Maybe," she says, not ready to admit he is completely correct.

He squeezes her shoulder in response.

She wipes her face with her sleeve and takes a deep breath, trying to regain her composure.

"I can't do this," she repeats, whispering. "I can't be the second Witness… You're wrong, it's not me… It _can't_ be… I'm not… I… don't have it in me." Just when she thought she'd stopped the tears, another rolls down her cheek. This time Crane reaches up and gently wipes it away.

"Miss Mills," he says, using one finger to turn her face towards his. "You _are_ the second Witness. My partner in this time. I have never been more certain of anything in my life."  
"Well, I'm glad _you're_ sure," she says, but his certainty does bolster her. She's felt the bond between them many times now, both here in the house and out in the world, chasing down whatever creepy asshole Moloch tries to throw their way.

"I can think of no one else I'd rather have at my side," he answers, trying to reassure her.

Abbie closes her eyes, overwhelmed, turning her head to face forward again. She takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"Miss Mills, may I kiss you?" he asks, his voice quiet.

Her eyes open and she looks up at him, at his earnest face. His eyes are soft, tender, full of sympathy. Empathy. Unable to speak, she nods once, barely moving.

He lifts her chin with that single finger again and softly, _comfortingly_ , presses his lips to hers. It is a chaste kiss, one of reassurance.

Crane lifts his head, and before Abbie opens her eyes, he presses another small kiss to her forehead.

"Thank you," she whispers, finally leaning against him, her head on his shoulder. _I feel safe with him._ It is a revelation.

They sit quietly for a minute, listening to the soft hiss of the burner and the murmur of the simmering pot. She heaves a world-weary sigh.

"You are accustomed to looking after yourself," Crane finally says. She nods without lifting her head. "And you keep your emotions under wraps to shield yourself."

"Yeah," she admits. "But if you had the life I had growing up…"

He holds up his hand. "I fully understand the source of these behaviors. I merely mentioned these things only to add you do not need to shield yourself from me. Please, allow me to take care of you when you need someone on which to lean. If you are hurting, I wish to know so that I might help you."

Another tear slips from Abbie's eye. "I'll try. That's the best I can do right now," she whispers.

"I know," he answers.

"It's just… everyone I've ever cared about has been taken away from me," she whispers. "My parents. My sister. Corbin. If anything happened…" She stops herself again.

Crane looks down at her, pleased and surprised she's finally opening up to him. _I am all she has right now, just as she is all I have,_ he realizes. "I am not going to go anywhere, I promise," he reassures her, taking her hand in his free one.

"You can't know that," she says, her voice breaking slightly. "Don't make me a damn promise you can't keep."

"You are right. I cannot make that promise. But I _can_ promise if I do leave, it will not be by my choosing," he says.

She breathes a shaky sigh, shifting on the hard floor.

He absently rubs her knuckles with his thumb. She feels a… _something_ … from the sensation stealing over her body. It's not desire, not this time. It's security.

"Before you got here, I was all set to go to Quantico, to start a new life, heading towards a career with the FBI. Federal Bureau of Investigations. Kind of the police for the whole country," she explains. "This wasn't how I envisioned my life."

"Fate does not often show her hand," he says, still rubbing her knuckles with his thumb.

"'Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans,'" she quotes, resting her head on his shoulder again.

"That is very poignant," he says, impressed.

"It's not mine. John Lennon said it."

"Is he a philosopher?"

"Musician," she explains.

"As near as, in some cases," he says.

"You haven't heard much recent music, have you?" she asks sardonically.

"Is this Mr. Lennon not recent?"

"No, he's not. He's dead, actually. Shot and killed over 30 years ago."

"Ah," he nods, making a mental note to look into this Lennon person.

They sit together quietly for several minutes, Abbie's head on Crane's shoulder, his arm around her.

"Thank you," she says at length. "For being here. For staying, even though I told you to go away."

"You are most welcome," he says, looking down at her. She looks up at him, and their eyes lock for a moment. "You must draw your strength from me, just as I draw mine from you," he adds softly.

"You do that?" she asks, surprised.

"Of course. It is what makes us a good team."

She looks up at him, her eyes full of wonder at this strange man, this amazing man, this man who seems determined to ensure that she does not lose hope.

Crane gazes down at her, losing himself in the mahogany pools of her eyes. He releases her hand and softly touches her cheek with his fingertips, momentarily forgetting manners and propriety. Her lips part and his eyes flicker briefly to them.

Then he kisses her again. Without thinking, without asking permission, his lips find hers and linger this time.

"Oh, dear," he stammers, blinking and flustered, leaning back so suddenly that Abbie would have lost her balance had she been standing. "Forgive me, Miss Mills, I did not intend—"

"Crane," she cuts him off, but her voice is gentle. "It's all right, you didn't offend me," she says. "Really, it's fine…" she adds, softer.

"I… oh." He seems at a loss for words, which is a new experience for both of them.

Abbie finally smiles a little. Then she reaches out to him, turning as he slowly lifts his arm and wraps it around her, joining the other, pulling her into a tight, reassuring hug.

She exhales heavily and surrenders, letting him hold her. Letting him be the strong one right now.

They sit on the floor, Crane's arms around her back, her head against his shoulder. He's warm and solid and remarkably _present._ Abbie's breathing slows, syncing up with his as the stress and sadness gradually leave her.

Hesitantly, he brings a hand up, stroking her hair once. She sighs, but it is no longer a heavy sigh of despair.

"Miss Mills, shall we clean up the broken glass?" he asks softly, knowing that she is all right.

xXx

"Shit, I hope I didn't get any glass in the soup," Abbie says, switching the burner off under the pot. She shrugs. "Well, this is just the broth, so I'm going to strain it anyway. Hopefully that will take care of things."

Crane wields a broom, meticulously sweeping the kitchen floor while Abbie works on the stovetop, where most of the glass is. She removes the pot and sets it in the sink for the moment.

"God, this sucks," she says.

"Your colloquialisms never cease to puzzle me, Miss Mills," he says behind her. She notices he's sweeping the entire floor, not only the area near the stove. She's not sure if she should be insulted or thankful.

"Well, you know you can ask me anything, right? I might not always be able to answer, though, just to warn you," she says, chuckling a little. "You sometimes pretend to understand when you really don't."

He stops sweeping and stares a moment, caught like a deer in headlights.

"Didn't think I noticed?" she asks, absently reaching over to pick up a large shard of glass without really looking at it. "Shit!" she hisses again, dropping the glass and clutching her thumb.

She reaches for a paper towel and wraps it around her thumb – the right one, of course – and squeezes tightly.

"Let me see," Crane sets his broom aside and walks over.

"As if this day couldn't get any worse," she mutters, her eyes squeezing shut, tears of frustration forming now.

Crane takes her hand and slowly peels the paper towel back to inspect the cut, completely unfazed by the bright red blood soaking into the white of the towel.

Abbie bends her head to look as well, trying to see if it needs stitches.

"Miss Mills, I cannot see with your head in the way," he says quietly, pulling her hand towards him.

"It's _my_ thumb," she protests.

"And I have had basic medical training," he argues.

"So have I," she shoots back.

"Stop arguing and let me see, please," he lifts her hand higher in the air now, so he can look closely at it and she cannot see it at all.

"No fair!" she exclaims and realizes she's laughing.

_He did that on purpose._

"I cannot bear any more of your tears tonight," he says after a beat, almost to himself. He's still looking at her thumb, but his eyes betray him as they move on their own, flitting to her face for the briefest moment. The small confession stops her laughter and does odd things to Abbie's insides.

"I do not think you require stitches, but it needs dressing," he adds, wrapping her thumb in the towel again and pressing just hard enough to staunch the bleeding.

"There are Band-Aids in the bathroom," she whispers, still not recovered from his previous statement. "I'll get them…"

"Sit," he says, guiding her to the table. "I will retrieve these… Band-Aids… and tend your wound."

"They're in the drawer under the sink," she calls after him.

xXx

"Crane?" she calls. _He's taking too long._ "Did you find them?"

She hears some sort of British muttering, but can't make out what he's saying. Clutching the paper towel around her thumb, she stands and heads to the bathroom.

He's standing in there, box of tampons in one hand, single tampon in the other, eyeing them both suspiciously.

_Okay, the ground can swallow me up. Any time now._

"Th- those aren't Band-Aids, Crane," she says, frozen in the doorway.

He finally looks up. "I can see that, but what exactly _are_ they?"

She sighs. She's found that the best way of dealing with conversations of this ilk is to be completely straightforward. "They're for my time of the month. You know, my… female time."

"Ah. _Oh,_ " he says, turning a bit pink around the ears. "Um…" His eyes track back to the tampon held aloft in his hand.

"That goes exactly where you might think it would," she says.

"Oh, dear," he says. His voice doesn't betray his level of embarrassment, but his hands do, losing their grip on the box and tampon in flustered mortification.

It tumbles to the floor, tampons spilling out around his feet.

All Abbie can do is laugh.

"I'm glad you find this so amusing, Miss Mills," he says, pouting.

"I'm sorry, you know I don't normally laugh _at_ you, but… man, that was just too funny," she says, laughing again. He's still pouting and still flustered. She can tell because his face is still red.

"Don't worry about it, okay? You were bound to stumble upon them sooner or later, I guess. Now can you help me with my thumb?" She holds her hand up and gently nudges the fallen items to one side, muttering, "I'll get these once I have my hand back." She has a feeling he's not going to want to touch them again.

 _At least he didn't unwrap it,_ she thinks, opening the drawer where the first-aid supplies are.

He does a surprisingly good job bandaging her thumb, with only a minor hiccup involving the adhesive backing. He got the first Band-aid stuck to itself before he could apply it to her thumb, but the second one he handled much better.

"Thank you," she says quietly, his warm hand still closed around hers.

"You are most welcome, Miss Mills," he answers softly, holding her gaze for a few seconds. Just long enough for the heat from his hands to travel up her arms and down through her body.

At least she tells herself the heat is from his hands.

"I need to pick those up," she says, looking down at the floor. He releases her hand and she crouches down on the floor, collecting the spilled tampons and putting them back in the box.

To his credit, Crane folds his lanky frame down beside her, helping. Gingerly.

"If you're uncomfortable…" she says, smirking again. _It's still funny._

"I am just fine, thank you," he answers, holding one between his thumb and forefinger as he drops it into the box.

"They're not going to hurt you," she laughs, losing her balance and falling back on her butt.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

It only makes her laugh harder.

He takes the refilled box from her hands and leans across her to return it to the cupboard in which he found it.

Abbie can see he's biting back his own laughter, trying in vain to prevent it from joining hers.

"Crane, there's a whole _world_ of products for women that I'm sure would completely baffle, if not horrify, you," she says, shoving his shoulder lightly, playfully, still chuckling.

She catches him off guard and he loses his balance as well, falling across her in a rather ungentlemanly way, and her laughter starts anew.

"Oof…" he exclaims softly, turning his face towards hers.

They are inches apart, and suddenly nothing is funny anymore.

Unconsciously, Abbie licks her lips. She's forgotten how to breathe confronted with the soft cerulean of his eyes so close.

A moment passes. Then another.

"May I kiss you once again, Miss Mills?" Crane asks, his voice a caress on her skin.

Abbie's heart thumps in her chest as she scrambles for a response. _Yes! Say yes, dummy!_

"If you're going to kiss me, don't you think you should call me Abbie?" she answers softly.

He shifts slightly and lifts his hand, his long fingers gently stroking her cheek a moment before cupping it lightly in his palm. Her face turns unconsciously into his hand, searching for more contact.

"Abbie," he breathes her name just before he brushes his lips across hers, softly testing.

"Ichabod," she sighs almost inaudibly in response, her stomach still fluttering both from his kiss and the sound of her given name on his lips.

Then his lips return to hers, still soft but fully connecting with hers, pressing gently but ardently, making her fingers curl into his shirt until the material is bunched in her fists as she tries to hang onto her sanity.

This is no chaste kiss meant to comfort and reassure. This is a kiss full of desire; the acknowledgement of feelings denied.

His hand tightens around her back as he moves again, shifting so he is no longer over her. In fact, she's somewhat on his lap now. Abbie clings to him, the surprisingly soft prickle of his short beard making her skin tingle.

Just as she's about to part her lips beneath his, he pulls away, breathing heavily.

"Forgive me… Abbie… I… I shouldn't have…" his hand lingers at her cheek a moment, then reluctantly drops it, holding her elbow lightly.

 _What? Oh. Eighteenth century morals._ Abbie feels a little overheated and frustrated, but she pushes it down, striving for patience. "Ichabod," she says softly, still in his arms, "it's all right. _More_ than all right. Remember, the world is different now."

He nods, but she knows he still feels he went too far. She doesn't want to push him, but… she still wants more. His kiss was like the first sip of water after years lost in the desert.

It should give her pause, make her examine her feelings for this strange man who was dropped into her life. But she finds she doesn't need to examine her feelings; they've been there for some time. Hovering, just beneath the surface. All she had to do was acknowledge them.

"We're on the bathroom floor," he comments softly, as if they've forgotten where they were. He reaches up and brushes a stray lock of hair from her face.

"So we are," she says. Impulsively, she pecks his lips once, just to see how he'll react.

His eyes widen in surprise, but his arms reflexively tighten around her.

 _This has been one hell of a night,_ Abbie thinks, moving from Crane's lap. Somehow he manages to stand first and offers his hand to help her up.

She takes it and does not let go, leading him to the living room to sit on the couch. She sits right in the middle instead of at her usual end.

Crane sits beside her, upright and proper as always. "Miss Mills…" he starts.

"Don't," she stops him, turning to look at him, her hand coming to rest on his knee. "If you're going to apologize again, please don't."

"I… wasn't."

"Liar."

He smiles, just a little, and closes his hand over hers. She takes it as an excuse to scoot a little closer to him. He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles softly. "Please, let me clarify. I am sorry I… pressed my suit with you just now. I had not intended for anything more than a simple kiss, I promise you."

She listens, turning her body towards his on the couch.

"I don't want you to feel I am taking advantage of your vulnerable feelings this evening, either."

 _Come on Crane, did you_ feel _me kissing you back?_ She says nothing yet, letting him finish.

"But… I'm not sorry I kissed you," he finally says, exhaling heavily. "Not at all, in fact…"

"I'm not sorry you did, either," she says, moving closer still. "And you didn't take advantage of me, _I_ promise _you._ "

"You keep reminding me that this is a different era," he sighs. "I am trying to learn, to adapt, but in this one area…"

Abbie slides onto his lap, effectively stopping his train of thought. She winds her arms around his neck slowly, deliberately. She doesn't want to startle him. "I know," she whispers. "But do you think you can meet me halfway?" she asks softly, kissing the corner of his mouth.

"I think we can…" he pauses, his eyelids fluttering as she kisses his cheek, her lips warm and soft, "…try to reach some sort of…" she kisses his temple, "…compromise."

Crane's mind is reeling. She's so wonderful. Like no one he's ever met. He knows what he _wants_ and he knows she wants it, too. She's making that quite clear as she continues to place small, soft kisses on his face while her fingers thread through his hair.

But can he adapt to 21st Century morality? _I didn't even kiss Katrina on the lips until we were betrothed._ Conflicted, he groans slightly when her lips brush his ear.

"Ichabod," she says quietly against his cheek, "I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I? Because that's the last thing I want."

"No… I'm… a little overwhelmed, I think," he admits softly, turning his head to nuzzle her cheek with his nose. "I know your behavior is 'normal' for this era," he says, realizing his arms have moved around her small frame without him knowing. "And I know that courtship is quite different now than it was during my first lifetime, but… I don't want you to think I respect you any less by my being too… forward."

"I don't think that at all," she says, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead so she can kiss it.

"I… I've come to realize… well, perhaps 'admit' is a better word… that my feelings for you are very… strong," he says softly, hesitantly. "But above those are feelings of deep admiration and respect." He reaches up and traces her cheek with a fingertip.

Her eyes flutter closed at his touch. "I feel the same," she breathes. "It's like… you're part of me…" She opens her eyes and leans her head against his.

"I am," he answers, "just as you are part of me." He kisses her, softly but briefly. "You are truly a wonder," he whispers.

Abbie smiles and kisses his lips again. "And you are truly one of a kind, Ichabod Crane," she says, lowering her head to rest on his shoulder. "And I mean that in a good way."

"Well, then, thank you. I feel the same about you, Miss Mills. Abbie." His hands slide, holding her closer, tighter.

"And you can be as _forward_ as you like," she says, a small giggle escaping her lips.

"Oh. Um…"

Abbie lifts her head and kisses him again, longer, sucking on his lower lip just a little until he groans softly. "Do you trust me, Ichabod?" she asks, gazing into his blue eyes.

"Implicitly, Lieutenant," he answers immediately. His voice is a little hoarse but his tone suggests that he thought the answer to that question was obvious.

"Then kiss me again," she whispers, rubbing the end of her nose against his. "I'll let you know if you start getting too forward _._ "

He pauses a moment. His lips part. He blinks twice. Deciding. Then he leans in and kisses her, letting go of his restraint, mouth immediately open, his tongue seeking hers out. Her fingers tighten in his hair, kissing him back with everything she has.

Crane groans low in his throat and pulls her closer, as close as he can, feeling her breasts pressing against his chest, her hip against his groin.

She feels his hardness growing against her hip and decides to back off.

"Hoo… that was…" she exhales softly, looking into his passion-dazed eyes, knowing hers probably look similar.

"Yes," he agrees, moving her slightly on his lap. "And thank you for stopping," he croaks. _I don't know that I could have done had that kiss continued on much longer. I seem to forget myself with her._

"You're welcome," she answers, brushing his hair away from his face.

"You have beautiful eyes, Abbie," he suddenly says. "Dark as the night sky."

"Yours are as blue as the morning," she whispers, trailing her fingers along his cheek.

"How is your thumb?" he asks, seeing the bandage.

"I don't even notice it now," she answers. _You are far too distracting._

xXx

That night, in bed, Crane holds her even closer. Abbie didn't think that was possible, but somehow he manages it.

"Feels different," she says softly, her back nestled into his chest.

"Different?" Crane asks, lifting his head to look down at her.

She turns her head. "Better," she clarifies.

"Indeed." He lowers his head and she raises hers to receive his soft kiss.

He lifts his head again and she pauses, almost afraid to broach the topic on her mind. "So… you're serious about this? 'Courting' me?" she asks gently.

"Quite serious, Miss Mills," he says formally, defaulting back to his manners. "Matters of the heart are not to be taken lightly."

She reaches a hand up to his cheek. "I'm only asking because, well… I think we need to keep this on the down-low".

"I'm sorry?"

"Um, the guys at the department don't need to know. About this _shift_ in our relationship, I mean."

"Of course not. It is none of their concern," he agrees. She smiles and puts her head back down. He stares at the side of her neck, at the smooth brown skin there. His lips feel drawn to it, but he resists, fearing he'll forget himself again if he indulges. "As you said: what happens in this house, stays in this house."

"Yep," she sighs, settling in against him again, relishing the feel of his arms around her, his form behind her, lean and hard, but comforting nevertheless. _Very comforting._

Crane feels her body relax against his and realizes how exhausted she must be after the day's events.

"Goodnight, Abbie," he whispers, nuzzling her hair.

"Mmm," she mumbles, already mostly asleep.

He gives in then, moving his head to kiss her neck, just once.

"Mmm…" she mumbles again, but this time it sounds completely different.

Crane closes his eyes, the feel and scent of her skin lulling him to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

The week after Thanksgiving was chaos.

Actually, it was Chaos. Moloch, who had been suspiciously quiet since Halloween, unleashed Chaos on Sleepy Hollow.

Captain Irving nearly lost his mind. So did most of the high-ranking authority figures and officials in town, all succumbing to some form of madness, rendering them incapable of doing their jobs or even living their lives.

Once he recovered, the captain reluctantly let go of his skepticism and decided he'd seen "too much weird shit not to believe Crane's crazy-ass story."

Abbie was glad to finally have his support. Makes her life a whole lot easier.

Finally admitting her feelings for Crane has also made her life easier, at least at home. Work is a little tricky, but since Abbie is accustomed to keeping her emotions under wraps most of the time anyway, she's handling it pretty well.

Crane, on the other hand, had almost slipped once or twice, unthinkingly reaching for her hand or to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear before remembering himself.

As it turns out, Ichabod Crane is a very affectionate man. Every morning he tells Abbie how beautiful she is and every evening he kisses her goodnight at least three times. In fact, he kisses her whenever he gets the opportunity.

Abbie enjoys the attention and affection, but it's a new experience for her. Her relationship with Luke was nothing like this at all. Not after the first week, anyway. He made her feel like she was his possession; a plaything, almost. Crane makes her feel cherished. He appreciates her simply for who she is.

She's also adjusting to fully opening herself up to another person. This is something she's never done before. She came close with Corbin, but that was a completely different kind of relationship. He was her mentor, a father figure. Crane is her partner, her lover.

Well, he will be one day. She hopes.

And that is Crane's biggest struggle within their new relationship. He's observant enough of other people and has seen enough television (and a few movies) now to know what she'll be expecting of him. And it's not that he doesn't _want_ to. He does. Very much. But having relations outside of wedlock was simply _not done_. Not if a man is a gentleman, in any case.

Put simply, physical romance before marriage is out of his comfort zone.

Just as Abbie's openness with him is out of hers.

He ponders this conundrum on the first Saturday afternoon in December. Abbie has gone to visit Jenny, hoping her sister will be more amenable if Abbie paid her a short visit on her home territory (such as it is). Crane is alone in the house, sitting on the couch, iPad in his lap.

 _Compromise_ is the word he is mulling over. He agreed to a compromise. She said she wouldn't push him into a physical relationship, and he agreed to endeavor not to be "so 18th century about all this."

Abbie promised she wouldn't shut him out anymore and would trust him. In return, Crane promised he would ask for help or clarification when he didn't understand something instead of just pretending he "got it", hiding behind his male pride.

She did reassure him that he could ask her privately at a later time if he did feel the need to preserve his pride in front of anyone else, like Luke or Captain Irving.

He glances down at the iPad to find the screen has gone black. He sighs. World War II was getting to him, anyway. He sets the iPad aside and flips on the television instead.

It still amazes him how he can hit a button on a device over _here_ and it fires that box over _there_ to life.

Crane presses the _Guide_ button, which brings up the list of all the programs on all the channels. He loves that. Everything delineated and defined in an easy-to-read list.

_Food Network… oh. I've seen that one. Cooking Channel, a good second choice… No, I didn't like that program when I watched it last. Discovery Channel… ugh. Deep sea crab fishing. Too tense._

He quickly learns what most 21st-century people already know: there is very little television worth watching on a Saturday afternoon. He keeps cruising through the list, higher and higher until he finally finds something that catches his interest.

xXx

Abbie hears a strange sound coming from inside her house when she returns from her visit with Jenny. It wasn't a terrible visit, just a bit awkward. Stilted. Full of thinly-veiled remarks about what _exactly_ Abbie and Crane are up to in her house as well as out in the world.

Jenny knows the truth. She just has a difficult time believing _Abbie_ actually believes in what she's doing, despite Abbie's assurances that she fully accepts the reality of demons lurking in the shadows. Abbie hopes Jenny will be able to get past her own hurt to accept the new leaf Abbie has turned.

 _Ironic, really,_ Abbie had been thinking as she walked to her door, grocery bag in hand.

Now she stands, hand hovering over the knob, listening.

 _Is that Guns 'n' Roses?_ She's fairly certain she can hear Axl Rose's distinctive caterwauling through the door.

_Oh boy._

She takes a deep breath, bites back the grin that wants to spread across her face, and opens the door.

Crane is sitting on the couch, staring at the television, the strains of "Welcome to the Jungle" washing over him.

_Thank God, it's just the music channels from the satellite company, not actual music videos._

She walks in, sets her bag down, and comes up behind Crane, resting her hand on his shoulder. He jumps. He had the volume up so loud, he hadn't heard her come in.

"Oh! Abbie… I…" he scrambles for the remote, turning the volume down.

"You found the music channels, hey?" she asks, bending down to kiss his upturned face. "Hello."

"Good afternoon, my sweet. I've missed you," he says, kissing her a second time, reaching up with his hand to stroke her cheek.

"Me, too," she says, smiling. "Find anything you like?"

"Yes, actually. There was a channel labeled 'Classical' I quite liked…"

"Obviously," she says.

"Indeed. I listened to Mozart. It was marvelous. Then it changed to another composer, one I didn't know. Igor Stravinsky. I found it cacophonous at first, yet I could not make my finger press the button to change the channel. In the end, I decided I did like it."

He continues. "Then I got curious. I listened to something called 'Big Band and Swing' for a while. I enjoyed Miss Ella Fitzgerald and Mr. Frank Sinatra. And I have never heard a clarinet played quite like Mr. Benny Goodman." He cocks his head to the side thoughtfully. "And there was another. Mr. Louis Armstrong. He was quite fascinating."

"Satchmo," Abbie says, smiling. "Jazz is a favorite of mine."

He smiles. "Then I started through the decades. I heard The Beatles, and I learned that's where your Mr. Lennon is from."

Abbie nods, still smiling. She has a very clear picture in her head of him simultaneously listening to the music and doing research on the iPad.

"There were also some interesting vocal groups in the 1960s I found to be very… uplifting… The Supremes and The Temptations I liked very much," he says, nodding.

 _Crane's got some soul in him,_ Abbie thinks, smiling. "Motown. Good stuff."

"Oh, and a young man called Mr. Stevie Wonder. Curious name, that."

"Well, he ain't young anymore, and that's not his real last name. A lot of musicians and actors use fake names. They pick a name they think sounds better or will sell more records or movies."

"So what is Mr. Wonder's real name?"

Abbie shrugs. "You'll have to look it up," she smiles.

"I shall. Then I moved on to the 1970s. I did not care much for a lot of the music from that decade," he frowns, and she laughs.

"Disco not your thing?"

"Disco?" he repeats. "Is that what that was?"

"Probably. The Bee Gees, The Village People, Gloria Gaynor, Donna Summer…"

"Yes, I recall seeing a couple of those names," he nods. "The 1980s were just… strange… and I couldn't understand most of what I heard in the 1990s."

Abbie raises her eyebrows and shrugs in a silent _I know._ "So now you're onto Heavy Metal?"

"Not directly. I did listen to Country and Western as well. A lot of which was very sad."

Abbie chuckles again. "A lot of lost love."

"Yes. And there was some talk of tractors as well." He furrows his brow for a moment. "I did rather like Mr. Johnny Cash. He seems to have a very good grasp on the use of metaphor."

"What song?"

"It was called 'I Walk the Line.' He sang of staying true to his lover despite temptation—"

"I know the song," she nods. Somehow his musical preferences aren't coming as too much of a surprise. _Jazz, Motown, Country. Simple things._

"Oh, good. Then I do not need to explain further. I should like to hear more from Mr. Cash…" he trails off, distracted by the song that started a few moments ago.

Abbie looks at the screen. It's not a group with which she can say she's familiar, a band called Rammstein, singing a song called "Du Hast." Well, sort of singing.

Crane is fascinated.

"Is that German?" Abbie asks.

He nods. He listens for a while.

 _Of course he can speak German,_ Abbie remembers.

"Essentially, he keeps saying 'You have asked'. 'You have asked me and I have said nothing.'"

"It is pretty repetitive," she agrees.

"'Do you want to be faithful for eternity until death parts you?'" he translates the next part, his face still a puzzled mask as the harsh, heavy music assaults his senses. "This almost sounds like… wedding vows… curious…" he trails off again.

"But doesn't 'nein' mean 'no?'" she asks.

"Yes. That's why it's curious. This is a most perplexing song." He stares at the television a moment. "I like it," he decides, looking up at her, still standing behind the sofa.

"Great," she says, a bit sarcastically. _Ichabod Crane, metalhead._ The song ends (thankfully, for Abbie), and Metallica starts up next. "Hey, you wanted to hear more Johnny Cash?" she asks, gently taking the remote from his hand and turning the volume down some more.

"Yes. Can this be done?" he asks.

"Yep. Let me put this bag in the kitchen and I'll be right back. Grab the iPad," she tells him. She hears him turn the TV off as she sets the grocery bag on the counter and puts the half-gallon of milk she bought in the fridge.

She returns, slipping her shoes off on her way to the couch, and sits beside him, taking the iPad.

"Forgive me; how was your visit with Miss Jenny?" he asks, smiling warmly down at her.

"Fine. I… I'm not ready to discuss it right now. I'll tell you later, I promise," she says, leaning up to kiss his cheek, not wanting him to think she's being evasive.

"Very well," he nods.

"Now," Abbie starts, a little wary of introducing him to the stream-of-consciousness minefield/time-suck that is YouTube, "this is called YouTube. People post videos on this site so other people can watch them. Tread carefully; there's all kinds of weird shit here." She types "Johnny Cash" into the search window, knowing she doesn't need to tell him what she's doing. He's got the concept of the search window well in hand already, thanks to Wikipedia.

"Here you go," she says, passing it back to him. She also gives him a pair of earbuds and shows him how to use them. "I'm going to make us some dinner. Let me know if you need anything." He nods and she stands, kissing his forehead before heading back to the kitchen to start making dinner. Loaded baked potato soup, perfect for a cold, blustery day like today.

Abbie works on the soup, cutting up and boiling potatoes, frying bacon, and cutting up green onions.

After a bit, she checks on Crane. He's staring at a music video of a very, very old Johnny Cash, singing at a piano, interspersed with clips of his younger self. Tears are pouring down Crane's cheeks.

"Ichabod…" she whispers, moved by his unashamed show of emotion over whatever it is he's hearing. She sits down again, and sees the name of the song he's listening to, something called "Hurt." _Oh, no. I know that song._

Abbie had a roommate in college one year who was into Nine Inch Nails. She's more familiar with their music than she would care to admit. She vaguely remembers hearing something about Johnny Cash having recorded a version of the song "Hurt," but has never heard it.

"Do you know this song?" he asks softly once the song ends, wiping his eyes and pulling the earbuds from his ears.

"Yes, I do," she nods. "Though not his recording of it. It was originally written and performed by a different artist," she says. She thinks about telling him the name of the group, since he would probably like them (he liked Rammstein, so…), but she doesn't elaborate right now. She reaches up and wipes one straggling tear from his cheek, and he turns his face and kisses her palm.

"It was so…" he sighs, unable to find the words.

She pulls him down into her arms and he rests his head on her shoulder, relaxing into her embrace, leaning on her. "I know, Baby, I know," she says, kissing his forehead and holding him comfortingly. "It reminded you of everything you knew, everything that's now lost, all your friends and loved ones who are gone," she whispers. She feels him nod against her neck.

"It was beautiful and poignant and so unbelievably sad," he says, lifting his head. He kisses her lips once, then looks back down at the iPad, noting the collection of suggested videos in front of him. "Is Mr. Cash still alive?"

"No. He probably died shortly after that was filmed, I'm guessing. Look him up," she suggests, smiling.

"I may do that. After I search for videos of Miss Fitzgerald," he says. He looks like he's feeling better now.

"She's dead, too," Abbie sighs. "Also try Billie Holiday."

"Dead?"

"Yep. If you want to see jazz from someone alive, try… oh, Harry Connick, Jr., or… um… Herbie Hancock. Or Wynton or Branford Marsalis. Most of the good ones are dead, though. Jazz isn't as popular as it once was," she says, standing.

"Pity," he says.

"I know. You all right?"

"Yes. Thank you." He reaches out and takes her hand, kissing it again. "Did you call me 'Baby'?" he asks, almost an afterthought, holding her hand to keep her there another moment.

"Um… yes. I think I did," she says. She's not entirely sure if he's happy about this or not, but there is a slightly mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

He smiles. "I thought as much."

"Is… that all right? It's meant as an endearment…"

"Yes, I gathered that," he chuckles. "I did spend the afternoon listening to popular music, after all. I heard a lot of 'Baby's."

"Right," she says, blinking and shaking her head slightly, gathering her thoughts.

"Do not worry, Miss Mills, I liked it. Your calling me 'Baby,' I mean," he says, smiling again and squeezing her hand once before releasing it.

"Oh," she says. Her cheeks grow warm and suddenly, she's feeling like a ridiculous, giddy schoolgirl. _Get a hold of yourself._ "Um… I need to get back to the soup if we expect to eat tonight," she says, heading back.

"Abbie," he calls after her.

"Yeah?" she calls back.

"Who is it that originally recorded that 'Hurt' song? I am curious."

 _Of course he is._ "A group called Nine Inch Nails. I think you'll like them."

"Very good," he calls back.

Twelve minutes later, Crane's voice rings out again.

"This song is just preposterous! Surely everyone knows what sort of sound is made by the fox…"

 _How the hell did he get there?_ She shakes her head, stirring the soup, waiting for it to thicken. _Never mind. I don't want to know._

xXx

Abbie finally found something that can fill Crane's impressively hollow interior (she's convinced herself he must be mostly hollow inside, because where else would he put all the food he eats?). Her loaded baked potato soup. He had a bowl and a half with two pieces of bread before he quite literally surrendered.

Feeling full and content, they moved to the couch where they cuddled in front of the television, watching people renovate a house on HGTV.

"I have a question," he says after a while.

"Shoot," she answers.

"I noticed that many of the musicians I heard today, particularly the jazz musicians, were, well…"

"Dead?" she guesses.

"Well, yes, but also, um, Black," he says, looking at her as if he's not quite sure he's used the correct term.

She turns. "You can say Black. 'Black' is an acceptable term, remember? Or 'African American.'"

One of the things she did, after their uncomfortable first meeting, was establish correct terminology for him. She did not want him going around using antiquated terms that might be considered offensive.

"Jazz is one of the things Black people in America can claim as their own. Louis Armstrong? No one did what he did before he did it. Even that German heavy metal band Rammstein can trace their roots back to Black American Jazz. There'd be no rock and roll without us."

"Fascinating. I shall have to read up on this."

"Yes, do," she says, "it's a good read." She pauses. "Did you listen to any Rap at all?"

"Oh. Yes. For about two minutes. I could make neither heads nor tails of what I was hearing, so I chose to move on," he says.

"That's another genre invented by Black Americans. Now there are rappers all over the world, in every color. If you want to try listening to some Rap again, let me know. I'll find some that won't be so… jarring for you." _Maybe start him out with some Will Smith. Something clean._

"Yes, I should like to try that again," he nods. "Thank you."

"Anytime," she says, smiling at him. She leans against him again, settling back in. He gives her a squeeze, and they quietly watch TV for the next few minutes.

"Does it bother you at all?" she asks suddenly, sitting up again.

"What?" he asks, mystified.

"The fact that I'm Black. When you first saw me you thought I was an—"

"Emancipated slave, yes," he says with a sigh. "I do regret my words that day, but—"

"I understand, you don't need to explain it again," she interrupts him in turn now, silencing him with a single finger over his lips, which he kisses before she drops. "I didn't bring it up to rub salt in the wound or anything, but it just made me wonder…"

"It was a surprise, yes, the first time I saw you. More of a shock, actually. How can I explain it?" he blinks a couple of times, thinking. "Well, you know I was confused. Out of sorts." She nods. "In my head, it was still 1781. I couldn't even fathom how it was possible I was alive. Then I see you standing there, a Black woman, in _trousers,_ telling me you have the authority to shoot me."

She chuckles a little. "In my defense, I didn't know if you were some sort of dangerous, crazy person or not." She shrugs. "Turned out you weren't dangerous," she adds, smirking at him.

"Ha," he says, "amusing. But, as I said, I did find you lovely, even through my confusion. And, of course, as I got to know you, 'lovely' became 'beautiful,' 'wonderful,' 'intelligent,' 'kind,' 'fascinating…'"

"Stop," she says, giggling, embarrassed at his praise.

He tilts her chin upwards with his index finger and kisses her softly on the lips.

"So, it _doesn't_ bother you?" she asks again.

"No. How you look is a part of who you are, just as how I look is a part of who I am. Our differences are what make us interesting."

She smiles, marveling at how this man from a different era has somehow managed to be more open-minded than some people are in _this_ era.

"Captain Irving is Black," he remarks.

"Yes," she agrees.

"And Detective Morales is… Mexican, yes?"

"Yes."

"His partner Detective Jones is white."

"Three for three so far…" she chuckles, wondering where he's going with this.

"And Lieutenant Brooks was of Asian descent, was he not?"

"Korean," she affirms.

"Ah. To my mind, this is exactly what I was fighting for: people from different backgrounds and upbringings, coming together for a common cause. You all work together to fight injustice and prevent evil from taking over this land."

"Except for Andy," she mutters.

"Quite. But despite that one anomaly, my statement holds true. It's wonderful to experience."

"I wish everyone thought that way."

"Do they not?"

She sighs. "It's a long story. Abolishing slavery did not abolish racism, unfortunately. You may have to do a little more digging in your research, but in both World War I and World War II, Black soldiers were treated very differently than their white comrades both in the war and once they returned home."

"That is most unjust," he says, his brow furrowing thoughtfully.

"Black soldiers were fighting in the name of freedom, something they were not allowed to fully experience at home."

"It boggles the mind that this sort of… legally-sanctioned hypocrisy lasted over hundreds of years…" he says. Abbie can see that this information is quite unsettling to him. He's scowling and his fists are clenched in his lap.

"And it's more than that," she continues, sighing. "This uneven thinking applies to other races as well. Hispanics, Asians, Native Americans. The list goes on."

His frown deepens, and she touches his face softly. "It's improved with time," she says, placing her hand over his fist. It relaxes under her touch. "Have you gotten to the 1960s in your readings yet? Civil rights, Martin Luther King?"

"Not yet," he frowns. "I was just finishing with World War II, incidentally. That… Adolph Hitler person was a demon straight from the deepest bowels of hell," he says, frowning.

"That he was. But the Germans are cool now. They're our friends again. So is Japan. And from what I understand, the German people are horribly embarrassed about that time in their history. And our own government just recently apologized for its treatment of Japanese Americans during World War II."

"Yes, I recall reading about those… internment camps. Reprehensible. In any case, I think I shall have to go back and see what other information I can find on both of these World Wars now," he says, making a mental note.

She squeezes his hand, and he squeezes it back.

He looks down at her, remembering her original question. "So, in short, I am not 'bothered' by our differences. I quite like them, in fact. Rather a lot," he says, leaning over to kiss her again. "We could not be more different, you and I…" he mutters against her lips, slowly pulling her onto his lap, "…but that is what makes our relationship so wonderful." He kisses her deeply now, sweeping his tongue through her mouth. She meets his tongue with hers, her hands pinned between them on his chest. "Balance. Two halves of one whole…"

"Yin and yang," she gasps, and he murmurs his agreement. She doesn't have time to wonder whether or not he knows Eastern philosophy, because she's too busy losing herself in his kisses and trying to free her arms so her hands can rove a little bit.

His hands slide across her back, pulling her closer as he leans back slightly. Abbie frees her hands and slides one around his torso, the other delving into his hair.

"Abbie," he groans, moving his lips to her neck, kissing her soft skin, relishing its texture, its scent.

"Mmm." She tilts her head back, unconsciously pressing her breasts against his chest. She didn't think she would like the feel of his beard against her skin, but it's not as prickly as she thought it would be.

Her fingers thread through his hair, reaching up to pull the tie holding it in place. "Abbie…" he sighs, feeling his hair fall slightly over his face.

"I like it down," she whispers, her fingers gently massaging his scalp to further argue her case.

He groans again, his hands fisting the back of her shirt. She knows he's doing this to prevent them from wandering.

She wouldn't mind if they did wander. But she can't push him. She won't.

His lips return to hers, less ardent, sweeter, softer.

"It's late," she says, sensing the shift.

"We've had a long week," he agrees. She rests her head on his shoulder, inhaling his scent. _We made a good choice with that bodywash._

He stands with her still in his arms, and she squeals in surprise. "Crane!"

"Right. Television," he says, leaning over so she can grab the remote from the arm of the couch.

Laughing, she turns off the TV and drops the remote back on the couch before he carries her to her bedroom and their bed.

Their bed where they still do nothing more than sleep, entwined together.


	11. Chapter 11

December. The weather has turned cold and biting. Abbie took Crane back to Wal-mart for a heavy coat and scarf.

She'd never seen anyone look quite so dashing in a scarf. And he wears it even without his coat. Abbie finds it distracting.

Currently, Crane is looking particularly fabulous in a form-fitting black sweater and dark grey cargo pants. His hair is free from its usual cord (just the way Abbie likes it), falling slightly over his face as he bends over a particularly heavy volume of God-knows-what.

She is jolted out of the study she is making of her partner (the word "boyfriend" seems silly and inadequate when referring to Crane) one cold morning when Captain Irving came striding down into the archive.

Once Irving accepted the reality of Crane's "situation," he assigned Abbie to full-time Demon Detail. She no longer goes out on calls, instead devoting her time to working on this whole Moloch/Headless Horseman problem. She spends most of her time down here now, her desk upstairs in the station house sitting unoccupied most of the time.

The plus side is she gets to spend all her time with Crane. Sometimes wondering what it would be like to spend a day as his scarf.

"Hey, Captain," Abbie greets, endeavoring to look like she's actually doing something.

He nods at Abbie, then looks to her partner. "Crane. When is your birthday?" Irving asks with absolutely no preamble.

"Captain?" Crane responds, bemused. He looks at Abbie. She just shrugs.

"Birthday, Crane. Date, and year, please."

"Um, four July, 1753," he answers.

Irving taps some notes into his phone. "Thank you," he says, and strides away.

"What on earth was that all about?" Crane asks. He looks at Abbie, who is staring at him from across the table, mouth agape. "Abbie?"

"Your birthday is really the fourth of July?" she asks.

"Yes. I know; it is rather an interesting coincidence…"

"If there's one thing I've learned in these past months, it's there are no coincidences. My birthday is July fourth, too," she says. She thinks a minute. "So, 1753… you said it was 1781 when you, um, died?"

"Yes," he says. "Pitiably young to die, I'm afraid." He frowns.

"Good thing you didn't really die," she smiles. "I was born in 1985. That means we're both 28. So, give or take a couple hundred years, we're exactly the same age."

He reaches his hand across the table and she places hers in it. "You are right, my dear: that is no coincidence," he says, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing her fingers.

Abbie looks at her watch. "Are you hungry? I'll go get us some lunch."

"Yes. I should like one of those chicken sandwiches, if you've no objection," he says.

"From Johnson's? I can do that," she says, standing. He doesn't release her hand, instead holding it tightly and pulling her over.

"You will not be leaving un-kissed," he rumbles, tugging her into his lap.

"Apparently not," she says, chuckling.

He kisses her sweetly but thoroughly, closed-mouthed but still sensual.

 _How does he do that?_ Abbie wonders as he lifts his head and smiles down at her. _He makes me more flustered with one kiss than Luke (or any man she's dated) could with his whole body._

"I'll be back soon," she says. He releases her and she stands. He follows suit.

"I shall head to the library for a moment while you're gone," he says. "There is a volume I would like to see if Miss Rita has in her possession."

"Okay." She reaches up and softly touches his cheek. "I'll be back soon."

Abbie heads up through the station, exiting via the lobby.

"Hey, Abbie," the receptionist, Wendy, calls to her as she passes.

"Hey, Wendy, what's up?" she asks.

"That's what I wanted to ask you, actually," she says, smirking. She leans in close. "What's the deal with you and Professor Charming?" she asks softly, her eyes bearing a knowing glint.

"Crane?" Abbie asks, feigning innocence. "He's consulting on a big case that I'm working on."

"And he's living with you," she says, " _and_ if a man looked at me the way he looks at you, I'd have no panties left because they'd have all combusted."

"Wendy!" Abbie exclaims, flushing so hot that she's sure Wendy can see her blush.

"So…?"

_It would figure that one of the only other women in the building would be the first to spot it. I thought we were being discreet…_

"It's… complicated," she hedges.

"Abbie…" Wendy goads.

"Well, it is. Okay, _yes,_ we are… seeing each other in a non-professional way. But… just keep it to yourself, okay? I don't want this spread around the department."

"And by 'the department' you mean Luke," the receptionist says, understanding Abbie's reluctance.

"Mostly, yeah. Not sure how Irving would react either," Abbie answers, frowning.

Wendy nods. "Your secret is safe with me, I promise."

"Thank you. I'm going to get some lunch. Be back soon."

"Okay, thanks," Wendy says. She makes a note on the pad on her desk where she keeps track of the officers' comings and goings.

Abbie is nearly to her car when another voice calls out to her.

"Abbie!"

 _Great. What was it Crane said? "This day continues to bear gifts."_ She turns. "Luke."

"Hey, um, how are you? I haven't really gotten a chance to talk to you since you decided to stay, and…"

"Luke, I'm on my way to get lunch," she says, reaching her hand to her car's door handle.

"Can I join you?" he asks, looking hopeful.

 _Seriously?_ She sighs. "I'm picking up and bringing back, all right? And I don't think it would be a good idea, anyway."

"Picking up and bringing back… oh. For _him,_ " he frowns.

"We're very busy and he doesn't drive," she says.

"Right," he says knowingly, his voice dripping with implication.

"Look, Luke…" she starts and stops. "Screw it. I don't have to explain a damn thing to you." She turns toward her car again.

"Abbie…"

"No."

"I'm sor—"

"No." She sighs and turns toward him again. "We're not doing this. _I'm_ not doing this. There's a reason I didn't come back to you when I decided to stay here," she says. "You know what that reason is, and my feelings haven't changed."

"We can be friends," he tries.

"No, we can't. It doesn't work that way. Everyone thinks it does, but 99% of the time, it doesn't. Now I _am_ very busy and Professor Crane is waiting and hungry. _I'm_ hungry." She turns and opens her car door.

"So just like that, huh?"

"Yes, Luke. I thought you understood. It's over. You need to get a grip on your jealousy and find someone else." She gets in her car.

He gapes at her, at a loss for words.

"Goodbye," Abbie says, closing her car door.

When she returned with their lunches, she was feeling better, but Crane knew she was unhappy about something.

She tells him of her encounter with Luke, assuring him she is okay. "He didn't do anything," she says, "he was just really annoying and wouldn't take a hint. Hell, he didn't even get it when I spelled it out."

Crane scowls, his protective urges telling him to march upstairs and give Detective Morales a stern talking-to, but he knows that would amount to nothing but embarrassment for (and possibly anger from) Abbie.

Sensing his conflict, she opts for distraction, coming around to sit in his lap, where she feeds him a French fry from her own lips, followed by a soft, salty kiss.

"I'm fine. Don't worry about Luke. He'll get over it," she says.

"It is not Detective Morales for whom I am concerned," he says. "I fear his affection for you has not waned and he may act rashly."

"He won't. And if it hasn't _waned,_ that's his problem to deal with." She sighs and leans her head on his shoulder. "Not that I had any doubts, but if I had, today's encounter with him would have effectively erased them. It's like we were having two different conversations." She looks up at him. "That's one of the things I like about you. I know you are actually listening to me when I talk. I appreciate that."

He smiles and kisses her. "I appreciate _you,_ Lieutenant," he says, turning the title into an endearment. "Therefore, I listen."

"Thank you," she says, settling into his lap, their lunches temporarily forgotten. "Wendy knows something's up," she says.

"'Up'?" he asks

"She figured out that our relationship is… not exactly all business."

"Ah. Well. I cannot say I am terribly surprised that she discovered our secret," he sighs.

"Why is that?"

"She is an intuitive woman. It is her job, as a receptionist at a police station, to be observant, is it not?"

"I suppose," Abbie allows.

"Therefore, it is not surprising that Miss Wendy would notice our little liaison," he declares, seemingly satisfied with his analysis.

Abbie chuckles a bit. _We haven't even liaised yet, Crane._ "She promised she wouldn't say anything," she says. She kisses him once and stands. "Your sandwich is getting cold, sorry."

"Not to worry. You are always welcome to interrupt any meal if it means I get to receive your kisses," he says, picking his sandwich up again while she grins stupidly and goes back to her own seat across the table, where her half-eaten taco salad is waiting.

xXx

A week later, Irving calls them up to his office. Abbie's phone extension from her desk has been transferred down into their little lair beneath the station. Unaccustomed to interruptions, Crane jumps every time it rings. Thankfully, it doesn't ring often.

"Captain wants to see us," Abbie says, hanging up.

"Oh dear," Crane says, immediately wondering what catastrophe is about to descend upon them now.

"He didn't sound like there was a problem," she says, tugging his hand. He stands, kisses her small hand, and follows her out and up.

The captain's door is open, but Abbie knocks anyway to be polite. "Hey, what's up?" she asks.

"Come in. Get the door," he says. Crane closes the door behind him and waits to sit until Abbie has seated herself.

"Believe it or not, I actually have good news," Irving says, reaching for a thick envelope with another, smaller envelope sitting on top. "Crane's citizenship papers are in."

"Really?" Abbie asks, surprised. "I didn't even know…"

"Citizenship papers?" Crane asks, cocking his head at the captain.

He rests his hands on the large envelope. "The papers in here state that you're an actual person in the eyes of the government, Crane. Which _also_ means…" he hands him the small envelope, "you can get paid."

"Oh," Crane exclaims softly, a bit overwhelmed. He takes the envelope but does not open it, simply turning it over a few times with his fingers. "Is this why you were asking about my birthdate, Captain?"

Irving nods. "Of course I couldn't tell him 1753," he says.

"1985, I presume?" Crane asks. Irving nods again.

"How did you swing this, Captain?" Abbie asks, intrigued.

"Well, I have an old college buddy who works for INS. I pulled as many strings as I could – including surrendering half of my Mets season tickets to him – and he fast-tracked the case."

"Surely I should have been involved in some way?" Crane says, posing the sentence as a query.

"Well, he did mention you should at least take the citizenship test," Irving says, chuckling. "I told him you could probably _write_ the citizenship test. There's a copy in here, if you're curious." He passes the thick packet over to Crane. "Everything you need is there, actually. Social security card, birth certificate… um, we kind of made one up…"

Crane smirks and pulls the papers out of the package. "Ah," he says, finding the exam. His eyes quickly scan the questions, and he makes small _hmms_ and _huhs_ as he reads the questions. "Honestly," he finally declares, his voice tinged with derision as he files the test back where it was.

Abbie laughs, Crane's one-word assessment speaking volumes.

"So. All of this means you are now an actual American citizen," he pauses, holding his hand up before Crane can voice his vehement protest, "according to the rules of our government today. So, you can… get a drivers' license, um, open a bank account, vote, even get your own place."

"Thank you, Captain," he says, still a bit overwhelmed.

"Open that," Irving nods to the smaller envelope still in Crane's hands.

He opens it and looks at the check. "My word!" he exclaims.

"Yeah, there's some back pay on this one. They all won't be that big," Irving says, grinning.

"But this is from the library, not the police department," Crane notes.

"Yeah, I ran into some roadblocks when I tried to bring you onto the police payroll. So, since you're at the library almost as much as you are here, and it's _really_ more your field of specialty… you _officially_ work at the library."

"I shall have to thank Miss Rita," Crane says, tucking his check back into the envelope.

"You need to go see Miss Rita, actually. She has a few forms for you to sign," Irving says.

"Mills, take—"

"Yes, I'll make sure he gets everything squared away, Captain," Abbie interrupts, standing. Crane notes that her tone is a bit more brusque than usual.

_Curious. She was just laughing a moment ago._

She starts heading for the door before Crane even stands.

"You coming?" she snaps, turning, her hand on the doorknob.

"Um, yes. Thank you, Captain. This means worlds to me," he stands and shakes Irving's hand.

"Yeah, remember that come April 15," Irving replies with a snort.

"What happens on April 15?" Crane asks as he follows Abbie out the door.

She doesn't answer. She keeps walking towards the stairs leading down to the archives. The tunnel leading to the library is on the other side of the archive, so they need to pass through their little Fortress of Solitude first.

He notices Abbie is walking faster than usual. "Lieutenant…" he starts, catching her up quickly on his long legs.

"Miss Mills," he tries again, "are we in haste for a reason, or…?"

"Just want to make sure you have enough time to get everything you need so that you can have your independence," she says coldly. "You know, learn to drive, get your own… place…" Her voice falters on the last word.

She steps into the archive room and keeps walking at pace. Crane quickly closes the door behind him.

"Abbie." His voice is soft and warm and it stops Abbie in her tracks. She's already halfway across the room, facing away from him, shoulders straight, but he knows she's hurting. Hurting and bottling it up again. _She fears I'm going to leave her._

He walks up behind her and places his hands on her shoulders. "Please do not close yourself off from me." He gently tugs her shoulders, turning her to face him. He can see the tears just hovering, waiting for something to push them over the precipice. "Did I give you any indication that I was planning on finding my own residence?" he asks softly.

She looks up at him. _No, that's just my own stupid, dumb-ass brain assuming now that you have a way out, you'll take it, just like everyone else in my life has done._ "No," she whispers.

"Did I not promise I would never leave you?" he asks, even softer now.

"Yes."

He wraps his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. "Then I believe the phrase that would be applicable here is 'chill out.'"

She snorts a laugh despite herself. It comes out a little watery, and she realizes how close to tears she actually was.

"Neither of us would ever get a good night's sleep again," she mumbles against his chest.

"True, but that is not the only reason why I prefer to stay with you," he says, lifting her face so he can see her.

"I… I _like_ taking care of you," she admits. "And all I could think in Irving's office was _he's going to go because he doesn't need me anymore._ "

Crane gazes down at her for a moment, his hands resting on her back. He moves them to her waist, then lifts her off her feet. He moves slightly and sets her down on top of a stack of large books on the floor to his right. "There," he declares softly. Her face is much closer to his now.

He gently cups her face in his hands and kisses her once. "Do you not know that I _do_ need you, my love? We are bound together by fate, you and I, but… more than that, my heart is bound to yours. It only beats because it is allowed to be near yours." He takes her hand and places it on his chest, over his heart.

"Oh," she breathes, her fingers curling instinctively into the warmth of his chest. She can feel his heartbeat quicken at her touch, sees his eyes darken as his pupils dilate gazing at her. "I'm sorry," she whispers, unable to find any other words.

"No apology is necessary," he mutters, dropping his head to capture her lips with his, pulling her into a deep, heartfelt kiss that she can feel down to her toes. Her hand stays planted over his heart, but the other snakes around his neck, holding on lest she fall off of her little book perch.

They lose themselves in the kiss, Crane's hands splaying on her back, supporting her as their tongues dance within the warm confines of their mouths. When he finally lifts his head, Abbie feels breathless and a bit woozy.

He pulls her into a hug, tucking his face into her neck.

"I have no desire at all to learn how to pilot an automobile," he says, pressing his lips to the side of her neck.

Abbie laughs then, squeezing him. Her hand comes up to rest on his head, holding him there a little longer, soaking him in.

"Thank you," she says softly.

He tightens his arms around her in reply.

"Come on, Rita's waiting for you," she says after a moment. They unwind from each other and he holds her hand as she hops down from the stack of books. "Then we'll go to the bank and take care of that check." He nods and motions for her to proceed to the opposite door.

As they head to the library, some of Crane's words sink in.

 _Did he just tell me he loves me?_ She stops walking.

"Abbie? Is something wrong?" he asks.

"No, sorry, just… thinking," she says, willing her feet to move again.

As she watches him chatting with Rita and signing his W2 form (which he does without a lecture about taxation, thankfully), she has an epiphany.

_I love him. I love him so much it aches inside._

xXx

"Well, that was certainly an… adventure," he says, sitting on the couch, inspecting his newly-minted ID card they had just procured at the DMV. "The Department of Motor Vehicles is nearly as fascinating a place as Wal-mart," he observes.

Abbie laughs. "That's one way of putting it, yes," she calls from the kitchen. She took some boneless, skinless chicken breasts out to thaw that morning and is about to wind strips of bacon around them and place them on a sheet to bake for dinner.

Crane continues pondering his new brown leather wallet, looking again at the crisp bills he acquired at the bank. "How does one earn the right to have one's image placed on currency?" he asks.

"Most of them were presidents," Abbie called back. "Your buddy Washington is on the one dollar bill."

"Yes, I see. Pity, actually. He deserves a higher denomination, I think."

Abbie steps out from the kitchen. "Well, think about it this way: the one dollar bill is probably the most commonly-possessed and widely-circulated bill. So there's more of him around than Lincoln or Jackson."

"Hmm," he says, seemingly mollified.

"Did you know Benjamin Franklin? He's on the hundred. Was never president, but somehow landed the hundred dollar bill," she says.

"I met Mr. Franklin once or twice, yes. Brilliant fellow, but a trifle arrogant, I found."

Abbie snorts quietly to herself as she returns to the kitchen. _Don't know anyone like that around here,_ she thinks fondly.

"I do look forward to using this plastic card," he says. Apparently he doesn't want to discuss Ben Franklin any further.

It's a debit card, not a credit card. Abbie didn't think he was quite ready for a credit card just yet. Thankfully, he completely grasped the concept of the debit card.

"They are very convenient, yes," Abbie says, returning to the living room. "Chicken's in."

"Good. I am quite hungry." He pauses for a moment. "Should we not have gone out to celebrate my newly-acquired personhood? I would very much like to pay for your dinner for a change," he says, his impish smirk turning into a small frown, disappointed that he didn't think of it sooner.

Abbie cuddles beside him. "We can go out this weekend," she says.

"I would also like to reimburse you for the clothing you purchased for me," he says.

"You don't have to," she waves him off.

"No, I do," he says, looking earnestly down at her.

"It's really—"

"Abbie, please do not argue," he says, kissing her. "I would like to pay you back for my things."

She sighs. She wants to argue, to insist she doesn't need the money and he doesn't need to feel _beholden_ to her or whatever silly male pride emotion he's currently experiencing.

However, she knows she _does_ need the money (the Kohl's bill came just last week and she's been avoiding it) and he's not offering to pay her back out of any sense of obligation.

So she doesn't argue.

"Okay," she says quietly. "Thank you."

"Do let me know the amount at your earliest convenience," he says, kissing her forehead.

"The Superman pants are on me, though," she says, sitting up and looking at him. "Those were a gift."

"If you insist," he says, smiling.

xXx

Not surprisingly, Crane is in a fairly jovial mood this evening. They're watching a program about the Great Barrier Reef on Animal Planet, and he is completely fascinated, pointing excitedly at the screen when he sees something particularly interesting, marveling at how they were able to film under water.

Abbie loves watching him like this, watching him drink everything in, relaxed and happy. They don't get many opportunities for relaxed and happy.

She excuses herself to refill her water glass during a commercial break. "Would you like anything? I can make you some tea," she calls.

"No thank you, darling," he calls back. She smiles at his endearment, at his easy affection.

Abbie returns to the living room to Sarah McLachlan singing "Angel" on the television over shot after shot of the most pathetic looking dogs in cages.

She sits beside Crane again and looks over at him. He's staring at the images on the screen, his face forlorn. He turns to look at her.

"Miss Mills, can we not get a dog?"

 _Oh boy._ "Um, now is probably not the best time to be getting a dog," she says, taking his hand between hers. "What with trying to avert the apocalypse and everything."

"But these poor creatures…" he sighs, gesturing at the television.

"I know, it's heartbreaking," she agrees. "This commercial always makes me sad, too." She picks up his hand and kisses his fingers. "I didn't realize you were an animal lover," she says.

"We had many loyal and intelligent canines in the war," he explains. "Better soldiers than some of the men. General Washington had a deep affection for the animals, in fact. He bred foxhounds prior to the war."

"Really?"

He nods. "His favorite hound was called 'Sweet Lips,'" he says, his own lips tugging into a wry smile.

"You're making that up!" Abbie laughs.

"I would never!" he huffs. "She was an excellent dog, in fact."

"She would have to be, with a name like that," she says, still chuckling.

He smirks down at her. "That moniker could be applied to you as well," he says, leaning down to kiss her. "Sweet Lips," he rumbles, brushing his lips softly over hers.

"You are _not_ naming me… after a _dog,_ " she sternly says between his kisses, stubbornly holding on to reason for one more moment.

"Very well, my heart," he mutters against her lips.

Abbie's heart goes _thump_ at his words, reason checks out, and she kisses him with renewed ardor, pulling him down over her on the couch and he follows willingly. Eagerly.

Groaning low in his throat, their tongues glide deliciously against one another as her hands slide around his slender but broad shoulders. One of his hands is pinned between her back and the couch, and the other is at her waist, clutching her shirt in his fist.

 _Just move your hand where you want it, Crane,_ she thinks, her mind drifting back to that morning weeks ago when she awoke with his hand on her breast. Neither of them acknowledged it, of course, and she sometimes wonders if she dreamt it.

"Abbie," he breathes, kissing down her neck.

"Ichabod," she answers, moving one of her hands down from his shoulders, splaying on his back as she arches beneath him slightly, gently encouraging him.

He opens his mouth against her neck, sucking at her skin, even running his tongue down the length of it. The slick wetness of his tongue combined with the soft-coarse tickle of his beard makes her moan and clutch his head with one hand.

His fingers release her shirt for a second, then curl back into the soft cotton again.

"Ichabod," Abbie whispers, "let go. It's all right, Baby."

"Abbie?" he asks lifting his head. She moves her hand from his back and places it over his hand at her waist, gently prying his fingers loose. He gazes down into her eyes for a moment and sees nothing but love and trust reflected back at him.

He claims her lips again, shifting his body slightly to the side, his hand now flat on her ribcage.

She threads her fingers into his hair, her other hand flung uselessly over her head while they kiss. While Crane makes his decision.

He nibbles and sucks her lower lip. His hand shifts a fraction of an inch higher. He kisses her deeply, hungrily. His thumb brushes the bottom of her breast.

Then he grows bolder and moves his entire hand over the soft mound. Abbie makes a soft whimpering noise as he kisses her, arching her back again, pushing her breast more firmly into his palm.

"Oh," he grunts, tearing his lips away for just a second. He clearly remembers the shape and feel of her from that one accidental touch on a morning that now seems an eternity ago.

Abbie can feel his arousal against her thigh and it takes all of her willpower not to press against it; not to move her hand and feel the shape of him through his pants.

His fingers are growing bolder still as they familiarize themselves with her, cupping, squeezing, stroking. His thumb grazes her nipple and she moans. So he does it again, toying with the pebble-hard nub through the material of her shirt.

He kisses over to her ear now, gently taking her small earlobe into his mouth, nipping it lightly with his teeth, his hand still caressing her breast.

Then he moves his hand away, and Abbie cannot stop the disappointed sound that escapes her lips.

Crane lifts his head. Abbie opens her eyes to look at him. His parted lips are swollen and pink and his eyes are more black than blue. He kisses her once more, briefly. "We should go to bed," he says hoarsely.

And, with that, Abbie knows they're done. He's gone as far as he will allow himself tonight. The sentence "we should go to bed" does not mean _go to bed, nudge nudge, wink wink,_ to Ichabod Crane. It means sleep.

"Okay," she nods. "You all right?" she asks, sitting up as he slides carefully off of her.

"Yes, thank you," he says. "You are too wonderful," he adds, smiling a little.

"So are you," she smiles, reaching for the remote and turning off the TV. She stands and smirks at him, unable to help herself. "And now the next time you wake up with your hand on my breast I won't have to pretend I'm asleep."

"What? You… Miss Mills…" he sputters, watching her walk away. "Abbie?"

xXx

Crane lies in bed, waiting for Abbie to finish her nightly ablutions, pondering their activity this evening. _I crossed another line I never would have dreamed of crossing. Yet she assured me it was "all right."_

_I did rather enjoy it, as did she. And truly, I do become a trifle unraveled whenever she calls me "Baby." Curious._

_Nevertheless, I had to stop myself before I plunged my hand beneath her shirt to feel her skin beneath my palm. If not only for propriety, but also for my own preservation. I fear I would have been unmanned had I followed my baser urges._

And this is precisely why Crane established the unspoken rule that they only engage in romantic activities on the couch. He's afraid if they started fooling around in the bed, he wouldn't be able to stop himself.

The soft _click_ of the door alerts Crane to Abbie's presence. He hadn't even heard her return.

"You're lost in thought again," she says, slipping beneath the covers, lying facing him.

"You read me well," he sighs, pulling her into his arms.

"Care to share?"

He shrugs. "Just pondering the mysteries of love," he says casually.

 _Love. There it is again._ Abbie looks up at him. "Ichabod, may I ask you something?"

"Of course. Always."

"When did you realize your feelings for me were… what's the word you used? Strong?"

"Ah. I believe it was when you gave me the box for Katrina's handkerchief," he says.

"Wow, you knew that pretty quickly," she says. "Though I don't know why I'm surprised," she adds, muttering.

He chuckles and smiles. "I believe they were there for some time, actually. Of course I had been denying them up until that point."

"Because of Katrina," she says.

"Because of Katrina," he repeats, confirming her theory.

"Me too," she admits.

"Oh? Do tell," he prods, curious.

She sighs, having expected this. "Honestly, it came to light the morning I woke with your hand on my…" she looks down.

He clears his throat. "Yes."

"My body sometimes knows before my brain catches on," she explains. "I mean, I have always found you attractive, I'm sure you know this already. But when you gathered your wits and moved your hand away… I wanted you to put it back."

He blinks in surprise down at her.

"Like you said, of course I denied it. I squashed it right down. I would not allow myself to have feelings for a married man, even one who's wife was trapped in purgatory. You were off limits."

"That is because you are an honorable woman," he says, kissing her forehead.

"That is because I saw too many homes wrecked by selfish people who believed the grass was greener on the other side of the fence," she mutters, frowning.

" _And_ because you are an honorable woman," he repeats. "And I do understand the meaning of your quaint turn of phrase, before you ask."

She laughs. "Good." She cuddles against him, nestling her head into his shoulder. "Then on Thanksgiving…"

"Yes," he says, understanding. She doesn't need to explain further. "That is when I fully gave in as well. As I'm sure you know."

"I kind of had an idea, yeah," she says, dropping her head back down. Something's been eating at the back of her brain. Another elephant in the room, a tiny one this time, but if she doesn't ask, he'll grow as big as his pink predecessor. "Ichabod, may I ask you another something?"

"Certainly," he answers immediately.

She sits up a bit, leaning on her elbow. "Do you know what a 'rebound' is?"

"Well, from the word etymology, the prefix 're-' means to do something again, and 'bound' means to leap or jump," he says.

It's pretty much the answer she was expecting.

"We have a… a term now. 'Rebound girl.' Or boy, I guess, depending on the situation. I… I just can't help but wonder… since it's only been about six weeks since Katrina died…"

"Ah. Oh." He frowns, understanding. "You are concerned that my affection for you is merely me projecting my feelings for Katrina onto you because you are the… um…"

"Next girl in line," Abbie finishes. She scoots away slightly. He pulls her back.

"Abbie," he says, taking her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger and tilting her head down to look at him. "What can I say to assure you this is not the case? As I said, the feelings were already there before Katrina was gone. I cannot explain it in any rational or logical way."

"I believe you," she whispers, spellbound by his eyes, his voice.

"Abigail, believe me when I say that what I feel for you is… stronger… _deeper_ … than what I felt for Katrina. I do not fully understand it myself. I did love her, very much. Even if there was an additional motive in our marriage." He frowns a little now, and Abbie realizes he's still struggling a little with being Katrina's kind-of pawn.

"You wouldn't have married her if you didn't love her," she says.

He nods and pulls her back down against his chest. "You, Miss Mills, _do_ something to me."

"I _do something_ to you?" she asks, tilting her head to give him a puzzled look.

"Something about you. It speaks to me, on a very basic level. A… primal level, if you will. When I said we were two halves of one whole, I meant it. And I don't mean… physical romance, either. Though, I will say that I was never this openly affectionate with Katrina, even when we were married."

"Oh," Abbie says, dumbly. "You weren't?"

"No. I was a devoted, loving husband, but with you…" He pauses. "Do you know how difficult it is for me to not kiss you every moment I am with you?" he suddenly blurts.

"What?" Abbie asks, surprised.

"It is a new experience for me, I promise you," he says. Then he kisses her forehead. "As I said: you do something to me."

"You do something to me, too, Ichabod," she answers. "You know me better than anyone…" she adds, as if this fact surprises her a bit.

"Better than Sheriff Corbin?" he asks, knowing how close she was to her mentor.

She nods against his shoulder. "He knew me well, but… I… you're the first person who I've completely opened myself up to," she says. "I never fell apart in front of Corbin like I did on Thanksgiving with you. I never would have allowed it."

He holds her tightly, kissing her hair.

"So, I'm not your rebound girl?" she asks, needing final confirmation.

"Decidedly not," he declares. "In many ways, I am a different man in this life than I was in my previous life. I am still very much myself, but… the man I am today needs _you,_ Abbie."

"Thank you," she whispers, angling her head up to kiss his neck.

His eyes close involuntarily at the feel of her lush lips against his skin. "Abbie…" he sighs a mild warning.

"I know, sorry," she says, tucking her head back down and wrapping her arm around his chest. He's never outwardly stated it, but she knows his rule and respects it. Frustrating though it is.

"I'm sorry, too," he whispers, letting his own frustration show a little.

"I hope you don't think badly of me for…" she stops. _For wanting you. For craving the feel of your skin against mine._

"I could never think badly of you," he says, his voice soft.

"I'm not a… wanton woman," she says, trying to find words he'll understand. _Ho_ won't suffice here. "It's not about the actual _act,_ Ichabod. I, um, want you because I… I feel strongly for you. Some people just drop into bed with whoever is available because it feels good. I'm not like that. It has to mean something." She tucks her head into his neck, hiding. "With you, it will mean everything," she admits softly.

"I know," he says, reaching up to touch her cheek, to gently draw her face out of his neck. "I do understand," he says quietly. He rubs small circles on her back, deep in thought for several minutes.

"Would you like to know what it was I whispered to Katrina's grave?" he finally asks.

"Only if you want to tell me," she answers, looking up at him again, confused as to where his thoughts are now.

"I said, 'Miss Mills will look after me, and I, her. She is dearer to me than I could have imagined.'"

 _Oh. That's where his thoughts are._ "You said that to _Katrina's_ grave?"

"Yes. And I was not telling her anything she did not already know."

"Oh my God, she did…" Abbie says. The memory of Katrina's voice in her head on Halloween night is still quite fresh. He looks at her, puzzled. "Halloween. She… spoke to me. In my head."

"Did she, now?" he asks, interested.

"Like, telepathically. It was pretty freaky. She said, 'I know you will look after him. Love him as he does you.' I was too shocked to fully comprehend the meaning of her words at the time, but… well, the word 'love' can be defined many different ways…" she trails off, unsure if this is the time for this conversation.

She knows she loves him. She knows it deep in her bones, and the intensity of it frightens her a little.

"Indeed," he says, lifting up on one elbow to gaze down at her. "But I think we both know…" he pauses, lifting her hand to his lips, where he kisses her palm softly, his tongue just touching her skin. "Grace Abigail Mills, I do love you. More than I can express with mere words," he says softly, pressing her hand to his cheek, where her fingers reflexively curl into the softness of his beard.

Abbie knew this already as certainly as she knows that she loves him, but hearing him actually say it takes her breath away. She gasps lightly and throws her arms around his neck, pulling him down and holding him tightly.

"I love you, too, Ichabod. So much… more than I thought was possible…" she whispers, her lips brushing his ear.

"I know," he whispers, and she understands he's not saying he knows she loves him, but he knows the intensity of feeling she's experiencing, because he feels it, too.

She still holds him, basking in him.

Feeling whole.

For the first time in her life.


	12. Chapter 12

Running. Running like someone had set their backsides on fire, their heavy boots crunching through the thin crust of ice on top of the snow as they flew, racing through the trees, Abbie's hand clutched in Crane's as he pulls her along with him, forcing her much shorter legs to keep pace with his.

"Still want a dog, Crane?" she yells sarcastically, pointing her gun behind her and firing point-blank at the massive hellhound pursuing them.

She fires and fires and fires and _nothing happens._

"At the moment, I do not," he answers, pulling hard on her arm, practically throwing her at the drivers' side door of her car.

Abbie scrambles inside, fires up the ignition, and hits the gas _just_ as Crane is closing his door.

"What the _fuck_ was that?" she asks loudly, her still-rapid breathing forming little puffs of steam in the cold air of the car. She doesn't normally drop f-bombs, but if there was ever a time for one, it's now.

"It appeared to be some sort of hellhound," Crane says, taking several deep breaths, trying to slow his own racing heart. His voice is steady, but his eyes and the flexing fingers of his hands betray his inner terror.

Also, Abbie can read him like a book.

Unfortunately, so can an increasing number of people at the station. In the past month, as their relationship has developed, as their feelings for each other have continued to deepen, the shift in their relationship has become more obvious. Abbie's had a few more conversations similar to the one she had with Wendy. Sometimes they just get _looks_ when they walk through the station, not touching one another, sometimes not even _speaking_ , but people can see the attraction between them.

Abbie is about ready to post a memo on the station bulletin board stating, "YES, LT. ABBIE MILLS AND PROF. ICHABOD CRANE ARE _INVOLVED_. CAN WE GET BACK TO FIGHTING CRIME NOW?"

To make matters worse, Luke's face seems permanently stuck on the "stinkeye" setting. At least it's his default expression whenever he sees them. Or even hears Crane's name.

And then there's Irving. Captain Frank "Assume I Know Everything" Irving, who happened to walk into the archive one afternoon while Abbie and Crane were working.

Honestly, they _were_ working. Abbie had found something of interest in a large volume opened on a table in front of her, and had just called Crane over to take a look. He stood behind her, reading over her shoulder. Perhaps he didn't _need_ to stand _so_ closely behind her. Perhaps he didn't _need_ to lean over and rest his palms on the table on either side of her so he could surround her small body with his and smell her hair.

And perhaps Captain Irving didn't _need_ to walk in at the exact moment when Crane succumbed to temptation and kissed Abbie's temple, bringing a sweet smile to her lips.

"Really?"

They jumped, excuses rapidly formulating as they turned, only to see the retreating form of the captain, hands in the air in surrender.

"Is it still following us?" Abbie asks, looking in the rear-view mirror. She sees nothing but blackness behind them.

Crane turns around in his seat, cursing under his breath as the seatbelt impedes his movement. "I see nothing. Perhaps the Horseman hailed the hound back to his side," he says. The foreboding image of the Horseman standing, tall and still, silhouetted against the trees, the huge beast on a chain at his side, is one that will always stay with Crane. It's pretty indelibly imprinted on Abbie's mind, too.

Especially the part when the Horseman released the chain.

"Awesome," Abbie says sarcastically, turning the car towards the station instead of home.

Crane recognizes the route. "We are going to the archives. Excellent," he nods.

"Sleep is overrated anyway," she answers, stretching her stiff neck.

"Abbie, are you all right? Not injured? Forgive me for not asking sooner, Treasure," he says softly, reaching for her hand.

She smiles at the unusual endearment. _He never ceases to surprise._ "I'm fine," she says, lifting his hand and kissing it just as he so often does to hers. "Thank you. And thank you for not letting go."

"I could hardly sprint off and leave you vulnerable to that… creature," he says. He looks down at her and cocks his eyebrow, smirking. " _I_ do not know how to drive this machine."

"Ha ha," Abbie says, but she is actually laughing as well. She knows he is teasing, trying to lighten the mood.

"You know, you probably _should_ learn to drive," she says, parking. "What if something happens to me and I'm unable to do so?"

"Hmm. True," he allows, frowning as he climbed out of the car, clearly unhappy at the thought of Abbie being injured in any way. He looks to the east and sees the barest hint of gold just beginning to show in the sky. "Dawn is nearly upon us."

"Good," she says. "Happy New Year, by the way."

"Not exactly the most festive way to ring in the New Year, is it, my love?" he asks, following her out of the cold and into the station.

"I've had wor—wait, no, I haven't," she sighs, laughing. "Even that time when Jimmy Dickinson tried to give me a New Year's kiss – ugh – was better than hunting a big-ass demon dog in the forest, only to wind up becoming the quarry instead of the hunter."

"Indeed," he agrees, walking down the stairs beside her.

 _Three… two… one…_ Abbie mentally counts down. Waiting.

"Who is this James Dickinson?"

_Bingo._

"Crane, I was 16 years old. Get a grip," she says, biting back her laughter as she walks inside.

"A 'grip,' you say?" he asks, pulling her into his arms. "Will this be sufficient?" he rumbles, holding her tightly as he leans down to kiss her.

"Yeah," she breathes when he releases her lips.

"Happy New Year, Abigail," he mutters, touching the tip of his nose to hers briefly.

"Happy New Year," she answers, hugging him, her head on his chest. "We need to do some work," she says, but doesn't let go.

"Yes, we do," he agrees. They reluctantly separate, and Crane heads towards a book he found a few weeks ago about demonic animals.

Abbie has learned to be _very_ thankful for that memory of his. He never forgets where he's put something. Comes in especially handy when doing research.

"Coffee?" she asks, heading to the coffee pot she brought from her house. They decided it was much more useful here.

"Please," he says, simultaneously flipping pages in the book while shrugging out of his coat.

"You got a good look at that thing, right?" she asks, stepping over, absentmindedly toying with the tiny ruby pendant hanging from a slender gold chain around her neck. Her Christmas gift from Crane. She bought him a gold pocketwatch, figuring he'd prefer it to a wristwatch.

"As good as I could have, considering the low light," he says, slowly turning the thick pages of the ancient volume in front of him. "No… no… too slender… too many heads… _there_. Does that agree with your memory, Abbie?" he asks, angling the book towards her.

"Yep," she says. "Huh. Looks like the demon dog from _Ghostbusters,_ " she observes.

"Beg pardon?" he asks, looking at her.

"It's a movie. I'll show it to you sometime. You'll love it," she says. _He might get about half of the jokes._

He looks skeptical. "Perhaps after we vanquish this beast," he says. " _Well_ after."

She chuckles and turns back to the book. "All right. Let's see what we can find out about this thing."

xXx

"Do you have a plan?" Abbie asks, stepping out of her car and checking her weapons. Again.

It's dusk, moments after sunset. Heading into that damnable (quite literally) forest. Again.

"No. Yes. Maybe. Find the hound, retrieve its amulet, destroy said amulet, kill the hound."

She rolls her eyes skyward. _Thanks, genius._ "How?"

"I have no idea," he sighs. "I suggest we begin the same as last night."

"Yes, because that worked out _so_ well," she says shortly, trudging towards the forest.

"Well, forgive me, _Lieutenant,_ but I am just as stymied as you on this matter," he snaps, her cross mood infecting him now.

She stops and turns to face him, sighing heavily. "I'm sorry, Ichabod. I haven't slept in over two days. Neither have you. We're functioning on caffeine and adrenaline, and I'm scared. I didn't mean to be short with you."

"I know, Abbie," he sighs, pulling her into a hug. "I'm frightened, too."

"We need to get this thing before it decides to go back into town," she says, leaning her head against him.

They got the call from Animal Control two nights ago. It was a short call, generally consisting of "Oh, _hell_ no."

"Indeed," he agrees, "we must—"

A deep, menacing, otherworldly growl pulls them out of their thoughts and one another's arms, and suddenly, they are on high alert.

Crane and Abbie creep into the forest, every sense alert, guns raised.

The growl comes again, and they follow, their boots softly crunching on the frozen ground.

They walk about 20 more yards and stop, suddenly noticing the unnatural quiet that has fallen over the forest.

Crane opens his mouth to speak. He never gets a chance. The hellhound lunges, tackling Abbie.

"Abbie!" he yells, running after them, trying to aim his pistol but unable to get a clear shot.

Abbie screams, and Crane hears a shot ring out. The hound makes a startled bark, its hind leg hit, but the injury only makes it angrier. Panic rises in Crane's belly and he runs toward them, his only thought _Get that beast off of Abbie._

Crane quickly holsters his weapon and leaps, jumping on the hound's back, praying his added weight won't crush Abbie. "Get… off… of… her…" he growls through gritted teeth, pulling at the hound's head, yanking its horns, trying with all his might to keep its fangs away from Abbie.

The hound snaps its jaws and thrashes its head, trying to shake Crane, but his grip is like iron. "Abbie…" he shouts, his voice edged with a desperation Abbie has never heard before.

"Aaurgghh! Yuck!" she answers. She sounds angry and is fighting valiantly, keeping her arms between the hound's head and hers, her elbows locked but arms beginning to tremble. "Crane… get the… collar…" she grits out, eyes locked on the glowing jewel dangling in front of her face.

"Trying…" he grunts back. "Can you shoot again?"

"Yeah…"

She kicks her foot up as hard as she can, hoping the beast is male, and aims approximately for where she thinks its balls should be.

It yelps and loses its footing slightly. _Paydirt._ Crane hangs on, and Abbie takes her advantage and moves the hand still gripping her gun.

"Now!" he yells. Aiming low, she fires at the hound's haunches again.

Crane grunts and tugs, pulling the beast off of Abbie, steering it by its thick horns. He has less than a second to enjoy his victory.

"Ichabod!" she screams, watching as the hound and Crane tumble, rolling down a hill on which she hadn't realized they were struggling.

Something flies through the air and lands at her feet. "Break it!" his voice rises up from the slope below.

Abbie hesitates a moment, torn between shooting the amulet and going after Crane and the hellhound. _Amulet first. We can't destroy the hound until we destroy the amulet._

Quickly, she picks up the broken collar, sets it on a rock, and shoots it. It explodes in a shower of sparks, a shower much larger than what she was expecting. Much larger than that which should come from a one-inch amulet.

A moment later she hears a shot from the bottom of the hill.

She immediately bolts, heart pounding, half-sliding down the snowy slope.

"Ichabod…" she gasps, skidding to a halt a few yards from them. She sees the body of the hellhound, still and strangely smoldering, melting the snow around it. A short distance away is Crane's prone body, his gun still cradled in his open hand. He's not moving.

Abbie's breath leaves her body and she slides down closer. Quickly, with hands that are now trembling slightly, she puts another bullet in the hound's head – always double-tap these things – before hurrying over to Crane.

He's as still as the hound slowly turning to ash behind her.

Abbie reaches down and touches his shoulder. "Crane?" She shakes him slightly. "Ichabod?" She pats his cheek and shakes his shoulder harder, growing more frantic as each second ticks by. " _Ichabod?_ " She climbs over him now, straddling his waist. "Please wake up, Baby," she whispers, leaning over him, her ear close to his mouth, trying to see if he's breathing, the whole time thinking _No no no no no no…_

His breath is present but shallow. Biting her lip, she pats his cheek again, a little harder. She sags, then inspired, takes a handful of snow and sprinkles it on his face. "Crane," she pleads, her voice breaking slightly.

"Pfff…" Crane sputters, blowing the melting snow off of his face, shaking his head a little. He reaches up and wipes the moisture from his face, blinking up at Abbie, surprised to see her sitting on him.

"Oh, Baby, thank God," Abbie sighs, dropping over him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek. His arms come up and circle her back, holding her tightly.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

"Am _I_ all right?" she moves, kneeling beside him now, looking down at him with an incredulous expression on her face.

"You've a scratch," he frowns, sitting up now. He reaches across to touch her cheek, brushing a bit of dirt away from the scratch.

"You were unconscious and you're worrying about a little scratch?" she huffs. She brings her hand up over his, though, turning her head and kissing his palm. "Are _you_ okay?"

"I believe so. A bit battered and bruised, but I shall mend," he says, slowly making his way to his feet.

"You're sure you're all right?" he asks, his blue eyes boring into her, scanning her for any other sign of injury.

"Might be a little sore tomorrow, but I think I'm intact, amazingly," she says. "I got some demon dog slobber on me. That was pretty gross," she adds, smirking a little, trying to diffuse his intensity. It's making her worry.

Her attempt doesn't work. She can see his hands opening and closing, his eyes darting. He looks like a man trying very hard to hold it together.

"We should go before Headless realizes we killed his pet," Abbie says softly.

"Yes," he agrees immediately, glancing at the dead hellhound once before tightly grasping Abbie's hand and climbing back up the hill.

xXx

After a quick call to report in to Irving, the ride home is quiet. They are both wide awake now. Both thinking about what just happened, both trying to process his or her feelings. Both thinking the same thought.

_I could have lost her._

_I could have lost him._

Abbie feels Crane's eyes on her while they drive. She feels them like they are his hands on her; each place at which he gazes grows warm.

She reaches to turn down the car's heat and he takes her hand, holding it tightly. A little too tightly, Abbie notices. He's gripping her hand like he's afraid she's going to slip away from him.

He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses each finger, the back of her hand, her palm, her wrist. Abbie notices he is trembling slightly.

She also notices her hand is getting wet.

"Ichabod, are…" she looks over at him and her words fail when she sees silent tears falling from his closed eyes as he presses her hand to his lips over and over again.

She pulls the car to the side of the road, and Crane releases her hand just long enough for her to shift into park and turn off the engine.

It's then she notices her own tears. Problem is, she's not sure if she's crying because of what just happened out _there_ or because of what's happening right now in _here._

As Crane unbuckles her seat belt and pulls her into his arms, she realizes it doesn't matter.

He holds her, his whole body trembling, his tears joining hers as they fall.

Somehow he's managed to pull her completely onto his lap. His arms are locked around her body.

"I've been in war… seen men die before my eyes… _taken_ lives," he whispers, tucking his face against her neck, "but seeing that… _thing_ … leap onto you… watching it trying to kill you… was the single most frightening thing I've ever seen."

"Now you know how I felt watching you tumble down the hill," she whispers back. "I think my heart stopped."

"I _know_ my heart stopped," he answers, lifting his head to lean against hers, thumbing away the tears on her cheeks. "I don't know what I would have done had you—"

Abbie realizes it's her turn to be the strong one now, and she straightens up, looking directly into his blue eyes. "Stop. Don't think about that. We're alive. Better than alive; we're alive and have sustained amazingly little damage." She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him against her. "Someone is looking out for us," she whispers.

He sighs, squeezing her again. He turns his head and kisses her neck. "You may be right," he says.

"You know I'm right," she says, grinning now, and she feels him chuckling against her neck.

He sighs again. "I will confess that finding you perched on my stomach was quite an agreeable way in which to wake up."

Abbie laughs now, lifting his chin and placing a small kiss on his lips. "Let's go home," she says softly.

xXx

Abbie unlocks the door and notices her hand is still trembling slightly. They step inside, moving automatically, walking to the coat closet. Crane, ever the gentleman, lifts Abbie's coat from her shoulders, his deft fingers somehow managing to brush the back of her neck in the process, sending a shiver through her. He removes his own coat and hangs it up as Abbie pulls her boots off.

His hand is halfway to his scarf when Abbie reaches over, taking one end of the scarf in her hand, intending to unwind it from around his neck.

Instead she grabs the opposite end with her other hand, and just when she is about to pull him down to her, he leaps, beating her to it.

Their lips crash together, desperate, a little clumsy in their adrenaline-fueled passion. Teeth bump a bit, but neither care as they lock together in a heated, frantic kiss.

"Abbie…" he gasps, tearing his lips away so he can reach down and hoist her into his arms, his hands boldly holding her backside as she wraps her arms around his neck and legs around his waist.

All the fear and anxiety bubbles to the surface again, transformed into something different; something primal.

"I thought I was going to lose you," he croaks out between kisses, walking blindly to her bedroom.

Their bedroom.

"When you went over that hill…" Abbie answers, reaching up to tug the band from his hair. She drops it to the floor and plunges her fingers into his soft tresses. "And then…"

"That beast was huge… you're so tiny…"

"Oh…" she gasps as he sits on the bed. She straddles his lap and he starts kissing her neck, nosing the thick collar of her sweater aside.

"Sod it all," he mutters, grabbing the hem of her sweater and tugging upwards. She lifts her arms and he pulls the thick garment over her head. She has one of her v-neck t-shirts on beneath it. "Better," he mumbles, his eyes taking just a moment to appreciate how her ruby necklace rests attractively in her cleavage before returning his lips to her neck.

"You, too," she says, yanking his scarf off and tugging at his dark green thermal Henley shirt.

He whips it over his head a second later and it lands on top of her sweater on the floor. Then his lips are on hers again, kissing her deeply, hungrily.

"Ichabod…" she sighs his name as she feels his hands pulling at her t-shirt now, pulling it free from her jeans. He slides his hands inside, his palms flat on the skin of her back. "Mmm…" she moans into his lips, loving the feel of his hands on her body.

Somewhere in the farthest corner of her mind, Abbie is wondering when he's going to ask permission to do what she thinks – hopes – they are about to do. He is breaking his own rule, after all.

She feels his hands slide down and grab her backside again, shifting her off of his lap.

 _Oh. I guess that's it_ , she thinks, but then he is yanking the covers back and dropping down onto the bed, kissing her again, moving her, laying her back on the pillows.

His lips still glued to hers, his fingers find the button of her jeans. He opens it easily, sliding the zipper down as well. Without asking permission. He instinctively knows he already has it.

_I guess that's not it!_

"Ichabod," she moans his name, writhing on the bed as he moves down to pull her jeans off, lifting her hips to help.

"Abbie," he whispers, kissing her knee before tugging her socks off as well.

"Keep up, Crane," she says, teasing, looking pointedly – and hungrily – at his jeans – and the very noticeable bulge contained therein.

"Boots," he mutters impatiently, sitting on the end of the bed next to Abbie's feet, yanking hurriedly at the laces. He hears the bedside table drawer open and turns his head to see Abbie withdrawing a small, flat square of plastic and setting it on the top beside her necklace, which she must have just removed.

Crane doesn't have time to ponder the mysterious plastic thing, because his second bootlace has gotten knotted.

"Bloody hell…" he curses, bending over his uncooperative boot. He hears Abbie's soft sigh behind him. "One moment, my love," he mutters, contemplating finding a knife and just slitting the damnable ties.

"Ah," he declares a moment later, finally succeeding in untangling the knot. He pulls the boot off and stands, turning, working on his own jeans now. He looks down at Abbie, laid out on the bed. Beautiful.

Asleep.

"Oh, Abbie…" he sighs. He's a bit disappointed, of course, but feels a smile tugging at his lips nevertheless, the humor of the situation not completely lost on him.

He finishes pulling his jeans off, removes his socks and undershirt, and climbs into bed beside Abbie, pulling the covers up over them and wrapping his arms around her.

"Good night, my heart. I love you," he whispers, kissing her forehead. She snuggles into his embrace, sensing his presence, even in her sleep.

Crane closes his eyes and immediately falls asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

Crane slowly blinks awake. The first thing he sees is the top of Abbie's head, tucked against his chest. She's warm and soft and wonderful and appears to be still very much asleep. He smiles and lifts his eyes to the clock. 9:12. They've been sleeping for nearly ten hours.

He ponders her slumbering form, so close in his arms, thinking about what they almost finally did last night.

He still wants her. He knows this. Any guilt he may have felt about taking this step without first marrying her pales in comparison to the intense fear he felt last night when that hellhound leapt on Abbie. He finds himself wishing he could erase that image from his memory. It's one he never wants to see again. Ever.

His arms tighten around her as the memory floods his mind, unbidden. The huge beast. His tiny Abbie. He's amazed she escaped with only a scratch on her cheek.

Amazed and infinitely thankful. He looks down at her and gently runs his thumb over her cheek, just beneath the scratch there.

 _She is already my heart, a permanent part of my being._ He kisses her forehead softly and she shifts slightly, but doesn't wake.

Crass music startles him, tearing him from his reverie. Crane quickly and gently disengages from Abbie, sliding out of bed to retrieve her phone from the pocket of her jeans, still in a heap on the floor. He moves into the hallway and looks at the device.

 _Irving_ is the name on the screen. Crane pokes the little green icon and slides it carefully to the right, connecting the call.

"Hello?" he answers softly, keeping his other ear trained on the bedroom, listening for signs of distress or wakefulness.

"Crane?" Irving's surprised voice reaches his ear. "Why are you answering… never mind."

"Miss Mills is still asleep, Captain," he answers calmly. "I was merely trying to stop the noise coming from this device, but then I saw it was you who was trying to reach her, so I decided it best to answer."

"Right," Irving answers, refusing to be flattered. "I just thought you should know the only thing we found of your demon dog was a big circle of melted snow and scorched grass on a hillside."

"As I would have expected," Crane answers. "Otherworldly beings are not in the habit of lingering in this world once they've been eliminated, thankfully."

"Um, yeah…" Irving answers. He's still clearly trying to hold on to _some_ scraps of regular human logic.

"Crane, who are you talking to?" Abbie's voice calls out.

"Ah. Miss Mills has awoken. Would you like to speak with her?" Crane asks brightly.

"Please," Irving says, sighing. He sounds a bit like a man who had called a friend and found himself on the line with that friend's six-year-old child.

"Very good. Captain Irving for you," Crane says, smiling down at her as he passes her the phone. He decides to head to the bathroom while she talks to the captain.

"What's up?" she asks, stretching, attempting to rouse herself into wakefulness.

"I was just telling Crane there was no dog corpse, just a scorched spot and a circle of melted snow in the forest."

"Figures," she says. "But at least it's gone."

"You coming in today?"

"Is the world ending?"

"I don't know; you tell me," he shoots back.

"Ha. Then, no. We've been up for two days straight. Call me if another demon shows up."

"I'll send him to your house," Irving says.

"Great," Abbie answers, smiling at Crane as he returns to the bedroom. He climbs back into bed and curls himself around her while she talks, his head on her chest. Her fingers immediately find his head, idly threading through his hair.

"Get some rest," Irving says. _Rest. I just bet they'll be "resting."_

"We will. See you tomorrow," she says, disconnecting the call. She sets her phone to Vibrate and places it on the nightstand.

Next to her necklace and the unused condom.

"Good morning, my love," Crane says, lifting his head from her chest to kiss her, shifting her back into his arms.

"Hi," she answers, snuggling into him. "I totally fell asleep on you last night, didn't I?" she asks his neck.

"Well, not _on_ me, but yes, you did fall asleep," he says, depositing small kisses on her cheek, her temple, her forehead.

"Sorry," she answers. _Damn, am I sorry…_

"No matter," he says, tilting her face up to his and kissing her lips softly but meaningfully.

 _What?_ She pulls her lips from his and stares, dumbstruck.

His eyes twinkle down at hers, bright blue in the morning light.

"You did not think I would simply forget, did you?" he asks softly, nuzzling her nose with his. "I need you, Abbie," he murmurs, his voice a low, seductive rumble.

"Oh, God…" she whispers, the simple sound of his voice melting her insides. He brushes his lips against hers before kissing a path down to her neck. Her heart feels like it's going to burst and she slides her fingers into his hair. The intensity of his ardor so soon after she has just woken nearly overwhelms her. He shifts further over her, pressing lightly on her abdomen, and a shred of sense makes its way into her brain. "Ichabod, I… wait a minute, Baby…"

He lifts his head from her neck. "You do not wish for this to happen?" he asks. He looks confused but not hurt, and she knows then that while he is piloting this ship, she is the navigator. He's in charge, but perfectly willing to go wherever she guides him.

"I do… _God,_ I do… but… I need to pee," she says. "And brush my teeth…" she adds, pressing her lips together.

"Oh. Yes. Of course," he says, moving slightly to allow her to climb out of bed, watching with interest as she walks away, his eyes drinking in the sight of her backside, clad only in a pair of very small red panties. _Must be another of her "pointlessly feminine" habits,_ he thinks, smiling to himself.

He hears the flush of the toilet, then hears the water turn on. A thought occurs to him, and he gets up and walks to the bathroom.

Abbie looks over and sees him leaning against the doorframe for a moment, all slender limb and sinewy muscle, clad in nothing but a pair of dark gray boxer briefs. _Damn, does this man have an ounce of fat on his body? Just… damn._

He smiles at her and steps into the bathroom and joins her at the sink, picking up his toothbrush.

They finish brushing, and Abbie lifts up on tiptoe to give Crane a kiss. "Better," she says.

"Indeed," he agrees, lifting her into his arms and carrying her back to the bedroom, where he sets her on the bed again. He gives her another kiss, but the plastic square on the nightstand catches his attention again. He sits beside her and lifts it from the table. "Abbie, what is this?"

"Um, that's called a condom," she says. _Oh, God, I knew he would ask…_

He turns it over with his long fingers, pondering it for a moment. "What is its purpose?"

"Well, it's for protection during lovemaking. It keeps all your… _stuff_ … um, contained," she says, biting her lip.

He looks at it, then at her, then back at it.

She sighs and leans over, opening the nightstand drawer. She pulls out the box and the little pamphlet inside. "Here. Just… read."

He sets the condom back on the nightstand and takes the folded paper from her, eyes quickly scanning.

Abbie leans back against the pillows again, closing her eyes, waiting. She knows it won't take him long. Not only does he remember everything he reads (or sees or hears or experiences), he also reads extraordinarily fast. She hears him making little noises of wonder and bemusement as he goes, and they tug a smile at her lips. She's learned to love those little _hmms_ and _ahas_ and grunts he makes while exploring a new concept.

Even one as delicate as this.

"Well, that was certainly… informative," he says, carefully folding the pamphlet and slipping it back into the box before returning it to the drawer. "Particularly the diagrams. The manufacturer of these items truly compensates an artist to draw such things?"

"A job's a job, and a paycheck's a paycheck," she says, smiling at him.

"Such a simple thing," he muses. He turns his full attention back to Abbie, the new information filed away for now.

She looks up at him, her skin heating under his gaze, waiting for him to make a move, say something, anything. He stares down at her, still as a statue, his eyes traveling her body from her toes to her face, saying nothing. Memorizing her lying there, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and underwear.

"Abbie," he finally speaks again, taking her hands in his. She sits up, wondering what he's going to say. "I need you to know that… my intentions are nothing but honorable. I want you, but I also want you at my side for always. Not just for these seven years of tribulation we are spending as Witnesses." He kisses her hands. "Always, Abbie. Permanently. If I am to live my remaining years in this time, then I must live them with you beside me. With me."

"I feel the same way," she whispers. "I love you, Ichabod. That won't change just because we've averted the apocalypse. _If_ we do."

"We will," he affirms, her words making his heart soar. He sighs contentedly, leans over, and kisses her knuckles softly. "Grace Abigail Mills, I love you with all that I am. I am a stranger, lost in this time, but with you, I feel I have found my true home. I have nothing to offer you but my heart, my soul, and my complete devotion, but if you will have me, I promise you I will love you for as long as my lungs draw breath."

 _Wow._ That's the only word floating around Abbie's suddenly-empty brain, stunned by his heartfelt declaration. The simple purity of his love crumbles all of the carefully-constructed walls she's built around her heart. She realizes her heart is thumping in her chest and feels a tear slip from the corner of one eye. Crane reaches over and gently brushes it away.

"I love you so much, Ichabod," she finally manages, her voice a whisper. "I didn't think it was possible – didn't think I was even _capable_ of feeling this way. But I do, and…" she stops, exhaling her frustration. "I don't have the words like you do…" she says, biting her lip.

He smiles softly at her and kisses one of her palms. "I do not need to hear the words. I know they are in your heart, as they are also in mine," he says quietly.

"Of course I'll have you," she finally says, deciding she'll just answer his question.

He leans over and kisses her deeply, hungrily, his passion renewed by her agreement, her acknowledgment that their love is bigger than any trial they are facing. "I love you, Abbie," he whispers against her skin, laying her back against the pillows again.

This time Abbie will stay awake.

He leans over her, half sitting, half lying, as he tells her again how deeply he feels about her, this time without words.

His hand caresses her cheek once before sliding down, ghosting over her neck and chest, heading towards her waist.

"We are unevenly matched again," he purrs, reaching for the hem of her shirt.

Abbie grins and sits up, pulling the t-shirt off and tossing it to the floor. Crane studies her bra a moment, noticing that it matches her panties. He ponders how to remove it, his fingers hesitantly reaching out.

"Here," she says, reaching behind her back and unfastening the clasp.

"Clever," he mutters, dragging his fingers up her arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake as they find the straps on her shoulders. He slides them down and she pulls her arms out.

He drops the undergarment to the floor, his eyes glued on her, slowly dropping them from her face to her breasts.

"Beautiful," he breathes, softly closing his hand over one of them, drawing a sigh from Abbie's lips. His hand leaves her breast to slide down her stomach, where his other hand joins it, reaching for the waistband of her underwear. "I want to see you," he mutters, almost to himself, as he gently slides them down her long, slender legs.

"Okay," she answers, her voice barely audible.

Lying bare before him, she watches his eyes drink her in. She doesn't feel any embarrassment under his scrutiny, she realizes. His expression is all love and admiration. Abbie feels cherished, like she is the most precious thing in his world.

"Forgive me, my love, I…"

"You don't need to explain," she interrupts him. "I'm guessing you haven't seen…"

He leans down over her and kisses her until her toes curl. Then he lifts his head and looks into her eyes. "I have only been with one other woman," he says.

"I know," she answers softly, kissing him back, her hands sliding up his chest to grip his shoulders.

"You are exquisitely beautiful, Lieutenant," he says, an impish smile crossing his face as he addresses her by rank.

A small giggle escapes her lips and she feels a delicious blush spread from her cheeks downward at his praise. She trails a hand down to his waist, reaching for his boxer briefs. They work together to remove them. Soon, said briefs join the collection of discarded clothes now littering the bedroom floor.

Abbie takes a moment of her own to drink him in, allowing her eyes to wander over his form. "You're not so bad yourself, there," she smirks, her fingers itching to close around the (not at _all_ disappointing) length of him and feel his girth in her hand.

Crane leans over her, closing his lips over hers again, his hands wandering, familiarizing himself with all the curves and planes of her body, the softness of her skin, the way she freely responds to the various tender places he finds. He's not used to such a lack of inhibition from a woman, but he's quickly discovering he likes it very much.

His large hands are like magic on her skin, tingling, almost burning, but in the best way possible. Abbie moans and slides her fingers into his hair, pulling it a bit as she fists a handful of his long brown locks.

He groans into her mouth, his hand clutching her waist for a moment before he trails his lips down her jaw to her neck, kissing a hot, wet path to her breast. He hums with satisfaction as he slides his tongue around her stiff nipple, kissing it lovingly, his fingers softly stroking her skin.

"Ichabod…" she sighs, bending her knee to slide her foot along his leg, her free hand reaching between them, searching for him, _needing_ to touch him.

Abbie releases his hair and clutches his head in one hand as her other makes its way to his manhood. Her fingers brush against his shaft and he shudders, her touch almost more than he can bear.

"Oh," he grunts, surprised. "Oh…" he groans as her fingers wrap around his length, holding a second, then sliding. "Oh, dear God…" he croaks, dropping his head to rest on her breasts.

"No one has ever…?" Abbie asks softly, her hand stilling a moment.

"No," he croaks. "We did not… do such things…"

"Oh," she answers. Suddenly worried that she's made him uncomfortable, she starts to remove her hand.

"No," he stops her hand with his own, "keep going…"

She strokes him a few times, loving how he unravels under her ministrations. He feels so good just in her hand that the thought of him inside her makes her feel a little insane. Her head is swimming. She feels a sense of abandon that she's never experienced before, and it both frightens and excites her.

"Ichabod," she breathes as he kisses his way up her neck, "touch me."

"Abbie?" he asks, gazing down at her, wondering if she means what he _thinks_ she means.

She kisses his lips and takes his hand in hers, guiding it between her thighs. "It's all right," she whispers, "I want you to."

He allows her to guide his hand, and his fingers curl instinctively into her moist folds, exploring softly, hesitantly. Unsure. One accidentally slides inside her. Abbie gasps and, misunderstanding, Crane very nearly jerks his hand away, but she grabs it in time, keeping him there.

"No, that's good," she whispers. He makes a curious _hm_ sound and slips it in and out a few times before exploring further, familiarizing himself with this new and heretofore forbidden part of her.

"Mmm," she moans when he happens upon _that_ spot, the small button that has been aching for his touch.

He makes a small, inquisitive noise and tries to find the spot again.

"Higher…" she tells him. "Oh… _there…_ " she groans, as those long, strong fingers, those _wonderful_ fingers about which she's fantasized in a myriad of ways for longer than she'd readily admit, find that small bundle of nerves and instinctively circle around it a few times. Abbie moans loudly and arches her back.

"Mmm, this is most enjoyable," Crane mutters, now grinning rather smugly as he takes his turn to watch her unravel beneath him.

Abbie feels her body quivering, warmth spreading from her center to her toes and she gathers her wits. "Oh… stop… I want…"

He somehow understands what she's asking, and he lifts up, positioning himself between her knees, bracing his hands on either side of her head.

"Wait a minute, Baby." Abbie regains her sense and stops him, reaching for the condom. "You need to put this on first."

He furrows his brow and looks down at her, watching as she pulls the item from its wrapper.

"Do you want me to do it?" she asks softly, noticing his sudden look of hesitation.

He nods, watching as she reaches forward and places the condom over him. His body jerks slightly as her fingers make contact with his over-sensitized skin.

"Oh… snug…" he mutters unhappily, frowning.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, then she slides her hand over him again, showing him he can still feel through it.

"Oh…" he repeats, this time a little more positively.

Abbie reaches up for his shoulders and pulls him down to her, kissing him. She sucks on his lower lip, moving one hand to run her fingertips over his beard. He hums appreciatively into her mouth when she does this, so she does it again. Her other hand slides around to his backside, dragging her fingers lightly over his skin. He kisses down her neck to her breast again, where he circles his tongue around her nipple before lightly biting.

"Oh…" she breathes, arching her back again, pressing her breast more firmly to his mouth. He groans and responds by suckling a bit harder, squeezing the soft mound in his hand as he does so.

He lifts his head and she makes a disappointed mewling sound until he kisses her slowly and lovingly. "May I?" he asks, shifting his hips lower again.

Abbie smiles and nods once, squeezing his rear before moving her hand back to his shaft. She pulls his face down to hers, kissing him as she guides him where she wants him. Where she needs him.

He groans, tearing his lips from hers as he slides slowly in, burying himself deep.

"Mmm, yes," she moans, lifting her hips to meet him, hooking her legs around his thighs, clinging to him with all of her limbs as he begins to move.

"Abbie," he whispers endearments as he thrusts into her with the same simple grace with which he does everything: fluid and smooth and beautiful. "My love. My heart."

"Ichabod… oh, I love you…" she gasps softly, her lips searching for his again. He happily bends down, kissing her deeply. "Oh God…" she cries out, tearing her lips away from his for just a second before returning, mindless of anything except him and how he is making her feel both physically and emotionally. Her heart feels fuller than it ever has. Her mind is focused only on him, and she realizes how much she needs him. It goes beyond want. She needs him like she needs oxygen.

"Abigail… Love…" he gasps as they move as one: body, mind, and heart. Connected.

He moves slowly at first, but then, as he feels her fingers gripping his shoulders, hears his name falling from her lips, feels that last brick in her protective wall crumble, he moves faster, building, building, carrying her with him to the precipice and then leaping…

They shatter together, a tangle of limbs and lips, first crying out one another's names, then whispering them lovingly into each other's ears as they plummet back to earth.

Their hearts still racing, Crane collapses over her, carefully, so as not to squash her. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, holding him tightly. He shifts, withdrawing from her, and starts to move off of her.

She tightens her arms again. "No. Stay," she says.

He lifts his head and opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again, raising his hand to softly wipe the tears from her eyes, giving her the smallest smile so filled with love that it melts her heart.

"Stay here," she repeats, a whisper this time.

"I fear I'll crush you," he says, still gazing down into her beautiful brown eyes.

"You won't. I need you here," she answers, guiding his head to rest on her chest. She gets a sudden chill as the image of Crane and the hellhound toppling over the hill plays through her brain again. And then his unconscious body, as still as death, on the snowy hillside. She squeezes him hard, afraid to let him go. "After almost losing you last night… I need you here now." She clings to him as their breathing slows back to normal. His hair tickles her breasts and his beard is a little scratchy, but she doesn't care. She loves the feeling of his body surrounding hers, of being completely covered by nothing but him, making her feel totally safe and thoroughly loved. Abbie knows, instinctively, that nothing can harm her if Crane is there. With her.

"Did I please you, my lady?" he asks after a minute. She can feel his smile against her skin.

"Do you seriously need to ask me that question?" she answers, chuckling, combing her fingers through his hair.

"Not especially," he admits. "I merely inquired to hear what your response would be. I do that occasionally."

"Really?" she asks, looking down at him.

He angles his face towards hers, grinning impishly. "You have a very unique way with words, Miss Mills. I've discovered I quite enjoy it."

"Back at you, Professor," Abbie laughs. "Okay. You're heavy now," she says, gently pushing his shoulders.

"I did warn you…" he starts, and she holds up her hand.

"I know," she sighs, still laughing. She reaches for a tissue and hands it to him. "For your…"

"Ah. Yes. Thank you," he says, pondering himself.

"You're on your own this time," she tells him.

"Understood," he says. Frowning, he removes the condom, cleans himself up, and lies back down, pulling her into his arms.

"That was incredible," Abbie says after a minute, her head on his shoulder.

"Indeed it was," he agrees. "Indeed it was," he repeats, slower, softer, looking off into the distance.

"You're surprised?" she asks, lifting her head to look at him.

"What? No!" he answers, snapping back to the present. "I knew it would be extraordinarily special with you, Sweeting," he says, trying to explain, kissing her. "But… oh dear… how do I explain so as not to offend…"

She sits up. "Just say it, Ichabod. You know you can tell me anything." She reaches down and touches his cheek softly.

He looks away, then closes his eyes. "It was never _that_ good with Katrina," he admits, opening his eyes. "Not that I'm comparing the two of you, mind, but…"

"Stop," she cuts him off again. "I don't want to know any more." She lies back down, pulling the blankets up over them before settling in against him again.

"Have I offended you?" he asks after a moment.

She pauses before answering. "No. I know you can't help but draw that comparison, even if you don't mean to."

"I am sorry," he says, his fingers tracing absentminded circles on her hip.

"It's okay," she says. "But I meant it when I said I didn't want to know any more, please."

"Understood."

"You did say that I was better, though? Just making sure I heard you correctly." She looks up at him again.

He laughs, kissing her. "Without a doubt, Abbie," he says, then he kisses her again.

"Good," she says, dropping her head back onto his chest while he continues to chuckle fondly at her. "Because that was _amazing_. _You_ are amazing, Ichabod."

He hums contentedly, clearly pleased at her words.

Abbie sighs and kisses his chest, her fingers toying idly with his chest hair. She lifts her head and leans over, kissing the long scar marring his otherwise perfect body.

She hears his breath catch. "It is part of who you are," she whispers, "part of what brought you to me." She kisses the scar once more before laying her head back down.

They are quiet for a few moments, lost in thought, lost in each other. At length, Crane speaks again. "I think perhaps… our connection to one another… our destinies entwined, partnership foretold from the beginning of time…"

"Yeah," she agrees, knowing what he means. _The sex was mind-blowing because we're cosmically linked._

"We were destined to be partners in every sense of the word, I think," he says.

"Seems to be the case," she says. "Even if it isn't _written_ somewhere, I'll take it," she adds, chuckling.

"Marry me, Abigail," he says softly. She gasps lightly, but doesn't answer. "Please?" he adds, tilting her chin up to look at him.

"I…" she starts, stunned yet _again._

"I realize it may seem… hasty… to you, anyway… but, did we not just pledge our undying love to one another? Did we not just confirm this love with our bodies?" he asks, stroking her cheek with his finger.

"Yes," she whispers.

"Then why do you hesitate, my love?" he asks. He isn't pressing or pushing. It's a soft inquiry.

"I don't know. I've just seen so many marriages turn out badly, and…"

"Abbie," he gently interrupts her, kissing her lips. "We are not those others." He kisses her again, longer.

"I know, but—"

He stops her words with another kiss, pulling her closer, his tongue sliding luxuriously against hers, tasting her as if she was the sweetest honey.

"Yes," she gasps, pulling her lips from his. "Yes, I'll marry you," she whispers.

He beams brightly at her, pulling her into a tight hug, her face tucked into his neck. "Thank you, Abbie. You have no idea what this means to me," he murmurs into her hair.

"I'm starting to get an idea," she says, turning her face to kiss his neck. "I love you," she sighs.

"And I love you, Miss Mills." He leans his cheek against the top of her head.

"You really know how to make an argument, I'll give you that," she says, lifting her head for a moment.

He simply grins smugly, preening a little under her praise.

"Arrogant," she mutters, putting her head back down.

"I have no means with which to purchase you a ring," he adds, and she chuckles into his neck.

"I don't care," she says, kissing him. "I don't care about a ring. _You're_ what I want."

"When?" he presses, ready to head off to the courthouse immediately if that is what she desired.

"What?" she asks, surprised. _He wants to know this now?_

"When can we marry?"

"Um… not right away, if that's what you're asking. We can wait a bit," she says, hoping he doesn't think she's trying to put him off.

"Whenever you would like, my love. The promise is what is important at the moment," he says. "I needed you to know what my intentions are. That I do not plan on tossing you aside now that I've…"

"Now that you've had your wicked way with me?" she asks, teasing him more. She realizes it is out of happiness. Stupid, giddy happiness. _I'd almost forgotten what that felt like. Almost._

"Oh, now, it was hardly wicked," he returns, raising an eyebrow at her. "I believe 'sublime' would be a much more appropriate adjective, don't you?"

She giggles and snuggles against him. "Yeah." He wraps his arms around her again and together they enjoy this moment of bliss, this small, perfect moment where the world consists of only the two of them. There are no demons, no horsemen of any kind, not even an Irving or a Luke or a Jenny.

He sighs heavily, happily, and she hears his stomach rumble rather loudly.

"Oh dear," he mutters.

"Are you hungry?" she asks, laughing.

"Only for you, my love," he mutters, kissing her head. "And perhaps some breakfast…" he looks at the clock, "or maybe lunch."

She laughs again and sits up. "Let's see what we have in the fridge, shall we?" she asks, giving him one more kiss before slipping out of bed and heading to the bathroom to fetch her robe.

xXx

"Um, we should probably take you to the doctor," Abbie says over a lunch of ham, egg, and cheese sandwiches on croissants. It was the only thing that looked good to her. Crane will eat whatever Abbie prepares for him.

"Whatever for?" Crane asks, confused. "I am in perfect health."

"Perfect health for 1781," she points out. "We need to get you checked out for any lingering… things… that might be in your system. You need immunizations and blood work."

"What and what?" he asks.

She briefly explains the concept behind immunizations and how scientists are able to examine a person's blood to determine their health. He listens with a combination of fascination and horror.

"Baby, you can't take this personally, okay? I mean, you can't help what happened to you. But because of the whole 200-plus year age difference, there may be something… I don't want to say 'disease,' but _something_ … in your system that isn't hurting you, but if I was exposed to it, could hurt me because _my_ system isn't accustomed to it."

"Oh. Well. If it means your safety, then by all means, phone the doctor," he says, immediately agreeable.

"After lunch," she says, smiling to herself.

"I do have one question: if I pass all of my tests _,_ can we dispense with those… _condoms_?" He pronounces the word _condoms_ the same way he was touching the actual item after he removed it: gingerly, with extreme distaste.

She laughs. "Yes."

"Good. I did not particularly enjoy wearing it. Call the physician." He waves his hand in the direction of her phone, sitting on the table to one side.

Abbie just laughs harder now. "Sorry, I'm not really laughing _at_ you," she says.

"Yes, you are," he says, but his eyes are twinkling at her.

"Okay, yes, I am," she admits, reaching for her phone. _He's just going to keep badgering me until I call._

She finds the number for the clinic and pops the phone on speaker, setting it between them on the table. "Let me talk first," she whispers, and he nods.

She navigates through the automated levels, mindful of Crane's puzzled looks as she presses _one_ here and _two_ there.

"Is it really that difficult for a human being to receive the call?" he asks softly.

"Don't get me started," Abbie answers. "I—"

"Tarrytown Clinic, this is Marie," a voice comes over the line.

"Hi Marie, my name is Grace Mills and I am a patient of Dr. Ramos. I have a friend who is new in town and he is in need of a primary care physician. Is Dr. Ramos taking new patients?"

"Yes, Miss Mills, he is. Have your friend give us a call and we can get him set up with an initial appointment," Marie answers.

"He's actually right here," Abbie says. "You're on speaker."

"Hello," Crane says.

"Oh. All right then, we can get you set up right away. Can I have your name, sir?"

"Ichabod Crane," he answers.

"Can you spell that, please?"

He looks at Abbie, his face clearly saying _Of course I can spell my own name._ She presses her lips together and just waves her hand at him.

"C-R-A-N-E," he spells.

"And your first name?"

He sighs. "I-C-H-A-B-O-D."

"That's an unusual name, if you don't mind my saying," she says.

"It's a family name," Abbie supplies quickly. "And he's from England," she adds, hoping that will be explanation enough.

"Fascinating," Marie says. "Do you have a middle name, Mr. Crane?"

Abbie has been curious about this herself.

"Nathaniel. Shall I spell that for you as well?" he asks. Abbie hopes his dry sarcasm doesn't translate through the phone.

"Is it spelled the traditional way?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Got it. Birthdate?"

"July four… 1985," he answers carefully. Abbie gives him a thumbs-up.

She asks him some more basic questions, some of which Abbie answers (such as his home address).

"Previous physician?"

Abbie shakes her head _no._

"None," Crane answers.

"None? There's no one we can contact for your medical history?"

"He's from a very rural part of England," Abbie supplies. "He's seen doctors, but has never had a primary care physician. Um, it'll probably be best to set him up with full immunizations and blood work. Just to cover all the bases."

"Um, all right," Marie answers. "It's a little unusual, but…"

"I would appreciate it very much, Miss Marie," Crane says smoothly. Abbie raises her eyebrows at him, smirking, watching him turn on the charm. She almost giggles.

Marie _does_ giggle. "I love your accent, Mr. Crane," she admits. "It's so refined."

"Thank you, Miss. I should very much like to see the good doctor at his earliest convenience," he says.

_He knows he's got her. Hell, he could make me do whatever he wants with that voice of his. I hope he doesn't know that…_

"Oh…" Marie says, and Abbie can practically _hear_ the woman's eyelashes fluttering. "We can get you in on Friday at 10:30, if that'll work for you."

Abbie nods, knowing that her part in this conversation is over. It's his deal to close now.

"Very good. And will I be seeing you there, Miss Marie?" he asks.

Now Abbie rolls her eyes. _Too much, Crane._

Marie giggles again. _Maybe not._

"Um, no… I just answer the phones and make appointments and things," she says. "I don't actually get to see the patients."

"Pity," Crane says. "Thank you very much for your time, my good lady," he concludes.

"You're _very_ welcome, Mr. Crane," she says. "And welcome to America."

"Thank you. Good afternoon," he says.

"You have a good afternoon, too," she answers. Abbie disconnects the call.

"Yeah, I bet she'd like to _welcome you to America,_ all right," Abbie says.

He looks at her blankly for a moment, then the lightbulb (or oil lamp, in his case) goes on. "Ah. Innuendo. Very clever," he says, smiling. "But you know that my heart only belongs to you, my sweet. I was just…"

"I know what you were doing," Abbie says, putting her hand over his. "You were schmoozing her to get your way. It was very entertaining." She laughs now, and he kisses her fingers.

"'Schmoozing,' yes. Is that what it is called now?"

"One of the terms for it, yes," she says, hoping he doesn't ask her to elaborate. _I don't think I'm quite ready to explain the terms 'kissing ass' or 'brown-nosing' to him._

"In my day we referred to it as 'buttering up' or 'greasing the wheels.'"

"Those terms are still around," she says, smiling as he kisses her hand again.

"What shall we do now, Miss Mills?" he asks. It's very clear what he's got in mind as he continues to kiss his way up her arm. What he can reach of it from across the small table, anyway.

"Well, we need to clean up our lunch dishes," Abbie says, deliberately taunting him. "Then maybe we can do some craft projects, you know, weave baskets or make a scrapbook of our demon hunting adventures…"

"Abbie…" he says, biting back his own smile at her silliness. He kisses the inside of her wrist, on her pulse point.

"I want to take a shower," she says softly.

"Oh," he says, his face falling.

"With you," she adds.

"Oh," his face brightens again and he is on his feet in a second.


	14. Chapter 14

"So, tell me about sex during the Colonial Era," Abbie says, cuddling against Crane's side in bed.

It's evening now, and they had spent a most enjoyable day together. After a long and decadent shower, Abbie helped Crane trim his beard with some electric trimmers she bought after discovering him working painstakingly with a pair of scissors for over an hour one day. He hadn't used the trimmers yet because he was a bit leery, so Abbie was more than happy to help put his fears to rest, straddling his lap while she helped him with his grooming.

In return, a stiff and sore Abbie (from the adventures with the hellhound and the adventures with Crane) received a _very_ thorough massage.

Crane has learned a few things; such as, he is, in fact, strong enough to hold Abbie in his arms and still make love to her. Especially when aided by the shower wall and her arms and legs wrapped around him. And, after the massage, he learned an alternate definition for the term "happy ending."

Abbie has learned Crane is a _very_ eager student. She's also learned while his experience with physical romance is quite different from hers, he makes quite impressive use of the knowledge he does have.

 _Now, it's time for me to learn a few more things,_ Abbie decided.

Crane stares down at her, not sure how to answer. "What, exactly, would you like to know?" he asks carefully.

"What's with the no-touching-below-the-waist rule? I mean, come _on,_ really?" To illustrate her point, she starts sliding her hand down his chest, beneath the covers to his stomach and lower. He snatches up her mischievous hand and lifts it to his lips, kissing her palm.

"Behave yourself, Miss Mills," he admonishes gently, kissing her fingers.

Abbie laughs. "Well?" she presses.

He shrugs, holding her hand in his, resting them over his heart. "It simply was not done. One time, um, Katrina _accidentally_ brushed against it, and it was…" he furrows his brow, "…confusing. She was completely mortified and I tried to reassure her no harm had been done."

"Wow," Abbie says, stunned. "I had no idea."

"Yes, well, the most confusing part for me was I wanted her to do it again. I can admit this now," he smirks.

"I'm sure you did," she answers. _Okay, how can we talk about this without me having to hear tales from Mr. and (the first) Mrs. Crane's bedroom?_ She quickly realizes perhaps this wasn't the best idea after all. _Okay, yes, I'll admit I'm a little curious, but… not right now._

"Um, so nobody was… kinky? No one had any sort of interesting… proclivities?" she asks, redirecting.

"Well…" he says, stroking his beard thoughtfully, "there _was_ the matter of Lieutenants Thompson and Carruthers…"

"Oh?"

"They were very… close. As in they preferred each other's company to that of young ladies," he says, his voice taking on a conspiratorial edge. "They were discreet, of course, but…"

"They were gay," Abbie says simply. "No big deal these days. Okay, well, to _some_ people it is, but it really doesn't even faze most people now."

"Really?" he asks.

"Yeah. Homosexuality is pretty mainstream in this century," she shrugs. "Jones is gay."

"Detective Jones? Detective Morales' partner?"

She nods. "Yep. Everyone knows. No one cares. He's a good detective, and a good guy, and that's all that's important."

"Hmm," he ponders this a moment. "Fascinating. In my day, it was… scandalous. No one would _dare_ admit to such a thing."

"Well, not anymore, Baby. What else you got?" She shifts, lying across his chest, resting her chin on her hands, looking up at him.

"It might help if you could define the word 'kinky' for me."

"Oh," she chuckles. "That means someone has a preference… sexually… that someone else might find unusual. Or even repellent. Like, oh… some people like to be tied up. Or spanked. Or tied up _and_ spanked. Oh!" she exclaims, more ideas coming. "And there are fetishes. People fixated on one specific thing, like feet. Or really big boobs. Or leather clothing."

"Hmm," he says again, absorbing this information. "Go on."

"More? Geez. Oh… oh, God, you do _not_ want to know this, but I dated a guy once, some years back, who turned out to be a Furry."

"What on earth is that?" he asks, sounding horrified.

"Someone who enjoys wearing animal costumes for recreation. And, in some cases, sex."

He gives her a look that clearly says _Please tell me you did not engage in such an activity._

She laughs. "Don't worry, that was a deal-breaker for me. He sort of… sprung it on me on our third date. Told me to wait in the living room and then disappeared for five minutes." She sits up now, clutching the sheet around her. "He literally came back wearing a rabbit suit – white fur, with floppy ears and everything – and went 'Ta da!'" She extends one arm to the side with the _Ta da_ , still holding the sheet with the other.

"Dear God," Crane gasps, clearly appalled.

"Yeah. Talk about shock. I just stood up, said, 'Okay, then,' and left." Abbie lies back down, tucked into his side once again. "I can't believe I just told you that. I've never told anyone before."

She feels Crane's chest shaking, and looks up to see him laughing. "The mental imagery of that story is just… unbelievable…" he chuckles.

"I'm glad you're so amused by my horrifying experience," she says, but her own laughter detracts from the bite of her statement. "Honestly, though, I did really like the guy up until then, and cried all the way home that night. Once I _was_ home, I laughed my ass off for a good hour."

"Indeed," he smiles down at her, squeezing her affectionately. "William Campbell used to enjoy wearing ladies' undergarments," he volunteers a moment later.

"I knew it!" Abbie exclaims, startling him. She leans up again and looks down at him. "I _knew_ someone had to be doing some kinky shit back then. That stuff didn't just appear in the last 100 years."

"So it would seem," he replies, pleased with her reaction.

"Who was William Campbell?" She settles back in against him.

"An officer in Washington's army. He didn't think anyone knew. But, of course, we _all_ knew."

"That's usually the way."

"He was even taller than myself," he adds, chuckling now. "A huge man, six and a half feet tall, wearing pantaloons under his uniform."

Abbie laughs, turning her face into his shoulder.

Crane grows quiet, and Abbie looks up at him. He appears to be lost in thought. "Getting tied up, you say?" he suddenly asks.

She raises an eyebrow at him. _Seriously? Don't tell me he's going to go all_ 50 Shades of Grey _on me._ "Um, yeah," she says. "I can't say I've ever done that, but…" she shifts, sitting up again, taking his hands in hers, and raising them over his head. "Imagine if your hands were tied to my headboard," she says, biting her lip as she wraps his fingers around the wooden slats, "and I was _here._ " She straddles him, low on his waist, this time not bothering to keep the sheet around herself. His eyes widen. "I could do whatever I wanted to you and you would be helpless." She drags her fingers down his chest, tickling his skin. He groans. "Unable to get away." She bends down and lightly bites one of his nipples. He jumps. "Unable to touch me."

He immediately releases the headboard, as if _that_ would be the most unbearable part of the experience for him: not being able to touch her.

"It is an exercise in trust," he mutters, sliding his hands up her thighs.

"I guess so," Abbie says, looking down at him.

"You know I trust you, Abbie, but… not being able to touch… that would be, as you say, a 'deal-breaker.'" His hands slide around to her backside.

She smiles and leans down, kissing him. "I know. You're very tactile. It was one of the first things I noticed about you after you moved in here," she says, talking in between kisses.

"Tactile," he agrees, his hands roving her body, illustrating her point. "That is a very good word."

"It sounds even better when _you_ say it,'" she mutters against his lips.

He chuckles, slides his hands up her back, and holds her close to him so he can continue to kiss her.

 _Conversation is over,_ Abbie thinks as Crane starts to move, trying to roll them so he is over her, but she stops him.

"Uh-uh. I'm staying up here," she says, sitting up again and smirking mischievously at him.

"But…"

"You've never done it this way?" she asks, angling her head at him as she trails her fingers over his chest again. He shakes his head "No" and she smiles again. "Oh, good," she purrs, reaching over to the nightstand for another condom. _Glad I bought the big box,_ she absently thinks, setting the packet next to her on the bed. She leans over and kisses him. "I think you're going to like this," she whispers against his lips.

"I already do," he rumbles, fully capturing her lips with his, his tongue seeking hers out. He slides his hands up and down her slender back, her skin the softest thing he's ever felt.

Abbie's hips shift unconsciously, sliding her moist warmth against his stomach. He groans, his fingers digging into her hips. He moves one hand around to touch her, his fingers now knowing exactly what to do.

"Mmm," she moans, grateful for the memory this man has. She moves to kiss his neck, running her tongue along his collarbone, sucking at his skin.

"Abbie," he whispers her name and she shifts, moving lower, reaching for him.

She takes him in her hand, sliding the tip of his length along her folds.

"Oh!" he grunts, his whole body tensing for just a moment from the surprising sensation.

Abbie repeats the motion a few more times, pleasuring them both, then reaches for the condom beside her on the bed, moving a bit lower, sitting on Crane's thighs now.

She opens the condom and places it on him, then lifts up, leans over to kiss him, and slowly sinks down, sheathing him within her.

Crane groans, gripping her thighs, instinctively trying to move his hips. She tightens her legs around him, keeping him still, and he groans again, pulling his lips away from hers.

"Abbie…"

She chuckles, kisses him once more, then sits up and starts to move.

"Dear God," he murmurs, transfixed, watching her body undulate, rocking in a hypnotic, up-and-down motion.

She takes his hands and moves them to her breasts. His fingers respond automatically, squeezing, caressing.

"Ah," Abbie sighs, arching her back before shifting again, moving forward and down so she can kiss him again.

Crane responds immediately, kissing her back with everything he has, enflamed by… everything. The novelty of this position. Abbie's beautiful body on display right in front of him, _only_ for him. Her bold, seductive attitude, so different from anything he's known.

It's easier for him to move his hips with her leaning forward, so he does, meeting her motions with his own.

"Oh… my love… forgive me, but…" he croaks out, and a second later he comes with a deep groan, clutching her small body to his.

Abbie continues moving, too close to her own finish to stop. She hears his groan, and the raw, primal nature of it tips her over the edge.

"Oh… oh, yes…" she gasps, shudders, and collapses gracefully onto him with a sigh, her soft hair bushing his chest.

Crane wraps his arms around her, holding her, stroking her back, realizing he loves the slight weight of her body lying on top of his.

"Mmm, I _did_ enjoy that," he says, kissing Abbie's forehead. She chuckles and cuddles against him, shifting slightly, gently disconnecting them.

She kisses his chest and runs her fingers through his chest hair, finding herself mentally ticking off qualities Crane has that she doesn't normally go for in a man.

_The beard. The long hair. The arrogance (rarely directed at me). The brain (I like guys with brains, but generally like to be the smarter one). The baggage, the likes of which I've never seen._

_Well, a lot of his baggage isn't exactly his fault._

He's so unlike any man she's ever dated, but somehow, on him, it all works. Like really _works._ Works so well, she's going to marry the guy.

Abbie sighs contentedly, about to mentally make, what will undoubtedly be, a very long _Pros_ list to go with the short _Cons_ one (even though, they aren't really cons), when his voice pulls her from her thoughts.

"Have you ever ridden a horse, my sweet?" he asks.

"No. Not unless you count the occasional pony ride at the County Fair when I was a kid," she says, looking up at him, knowing where he's going with this question.

"I think you'd be quite good at it."

xXx

Friday arrives, and with it, Crane's doctor's appointment. He's a bit nervous, as is to be expected, but Abbie promises it'll be fine.

_Unless they find something wrong with him._

Irving, still a proponent of making Crane a Contributing Member of Modern Society, had no problem at all with them taking off mid-morning to go to his appointment, barring any demonic activity, of course.

Crane doesn't do too badly in the doctor's office. He had quietly inquired if Abbie was planning on accompanying him into the exam, and Abbie correctly interpreted his question as "please come with me."

She was planning on staying with him anyway, as she's still a bit quicker at coming up with the little white lies sometimes necessary to prevent others from thinking both she and Crane are crazy with a capitol cray.

He endured the immunizations with his usual stoicism; nevertheless, he held Abbie's hand throughout the process.

From there they went to the lab where Crane had two vials of blood drawn, followed by the ultimate humiliation of having to urinate in a _plastic_ cup.

His last words to Abbie before disappearing into the restroom were, "We will discuss this indignity later, Miss Mills."

Only when the door was fully closed did Abbie allow herself to laugh.

An hour and a half later (Crane's ire over the amount of time they had to sit in the waiting room goes without saying), they head outside.

"I feel like a bloody pin cushion," he mutters, rubbing his upper arm.

"Sorry, Baby. That's probably going to be sore for a few days," Abbie says, reaching over to squeeze his hand.

"Now, will you _please_ explain why they wanted a sample of my… water?" he asks.

Abbie starts laughing again, unable to keep it inside any longer, and Crane scowls at her.

"Miss Mills," he says sternly.

"Sorry," she says, stepping close to him, just outside her car, and wrapping her arms around his waist, hugging him. "It's the same reason they want some of your blood. They'll test it for different things. Mainly drugs, probably," she says, releasing him and reaching for her car door.

"I never!" he declares, offended. "Yes, I'll occasionally imbibe in a spirit or two, if the occasion calls for it, but I have always staunchly eschewed the use of… stronger fare such as opium."

Abbie drops her hand. "It's just S.O.P., Baby," she says.

"Abbie…"

"Standard Operating Procedure," she explains, smiling up at him. "You did well in there, by the way. I could tell you weren't comfortable at all, and…" she pauses, chuckling again, "…I could _see_ the snide comments rolling through your brain, but you held them in like a champ. Now, come on, I'm hun—"

"So, the rumors _are_ true." A voice interrupts their conversation, stopping Crane in his tracks. He turns from his route to the passenger door of Abbie's car and walks back to her side.

"Detective Morales," Crane greets him politely.

"Were you following me?" Abbie asks, dispensing with the niceties.

"Maybe I was driving past and saw your car," Luke answers evasively.

"Maybe you wanted to know where Crane and I were off to and _followed_ me," she shoots back. "What do you want, Luke?"

"You and him. It's true, isn't it? What everyone's saying at the station."

"What is everyone saying at the station?" Abbie asks, cocking her head at him. She knows what he's talking about, but wants to make him say it.

"That you and… _him –_ Professor Stork here – are together. Like, _together._ "

Abbie sighs and Crane rolls his eyes theatrically.

"Oh, grow up, Luke," she says. "Yes, we're _together,_ " she adds, mimicking his tone.

"Forgive me, Detective, but I cannot help but wonder why you feel Miss Mills must answer to you for her actions," Crane says.

"Because she's my girl!" Luke blurts. "I mean…" he composes himself, but is unable to come up with a different answer.

"Luke, we broke up months ago," Abbie says. "We're done. Get it through your skull. I love Ichabod, not you."

Luke opens his mouth and closes it, clearly rattled by hearing Abbie declare that she _loves_ Crane.

"Look, it's cold out, and I'm hungry," she says, reaching for her car door again.

"I saw you," Luke says, his face clouded.

"What?"

"What?" Crane echoes.

"Just now. Talking to him. Hugging him. Looking up at him. No. _Gazing_ up at him."

"Luke…"

"You never looked at me the way you look at him," Luke continues, his voice soft but emotionless, like he is removed from himself.

"I believe that has less to do with Miss Mills and more to do with yourself, Detective," Crane says.

"What?" Crane's words snap Luke back into himself.

"What did you do to _earn_ such a look of love and admiration from Miss Mills?" he asks, unfazed. Abbie closes her eyes and squeezes his hand, starting to wish the earth would open up and swallow her whole. "Did you make her feel cherished, as though she were truly the only woman on earth, or at least the only woman to _you_?"

"I… Well, _she_ never…" He stops again, looking down at his shoes a moment. When he raises his face, it is to glare at Crane.

"I did not think so," Crane snaps. "Now, if you will excuse us, we have more important matters to which to attend than your bruised ego. Miss Mills." He reaches down and opens the car door for her.

"Luke, let it go. Move on," Abbie says. She gets inside the car and allows Crane to close her door.

"I'm watching you, Professor," Luke mutters darkly, now that Abbie is inside the car.

"And I, you, Detective," Crane returns, sweeping gracefully around the car to the passenger side.

"Douche," Abbie says when Crane enters the car. "Luke. Not you."

"Of course," he says, making a mental note to look up what this _douche_ is later, as he is certain Abbie is in no mood for his questions.

"What are you hungry for?" she asks.

"Might we go to Subway?"

She smiles. "Being repeatedly jabbed with needles does earn you the right to choose lunch," she says, pulling out of the lot. "We can go to Subway."

"Abbie," he says a few minutes later, "I would like to ask you to take care regarding Detective Morales. I do not believe he is quite finished with his attempts to regain your heart."

"It'll be fine," Abbie says, dismissing him. "And he never really _had_ my heart, now that I think about it…"

"That point is irrelevant, I fear. He seems quite persistent. His eyes… they were quite feral when he looked at you. It troubles me."

"Luke won't do anything. He's harmless."

"Abbie, I do not believe he is entirely harmless…"

" _Fine,_ I'll be careful," she says, basically placating him. "Sheesh. Battling demons and the apocalypse _and_ I'm supposed to be worried about a jealous ex?" she mutters, pulling into Subway.

"You are aware I can hear you?" he says, raising an eyebrow at her.

"I am," she shoots back, turning the car off. "And while I think you're overreacting, I'll watch my back. When it's not being attacked by hellhounds or Headless or Moloch or…"

" _Thank you_ , Miss Mills, you've made your point quite effectively," he says. "Now, shall we eat?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> William Campbell was a real person, whose recorded height is 6'6" (according to Wikipedia). I have no idea if he actually wore ladies' underwear. Probably not. Also, I have no idea what Detective Jones' sexual preferences were supposed to be. I just decided to use him to illustrate Abbie's point.


	15. Chapter 15

"Hey, your test results are in," Abbie says, brandishing a large envelope from the stack of mail in her hands.

"Excellent," Crane answers, taking the parcel. He hesitates a moment before opening it.

"Are you worried?"

"No. Yes. Some. Logic dictates that I am, as I have previously stated, in perfect health. I feel excellent. All my faculties function as they should. Some exceeding expectations, in fact," he pauses, raising a jaunty eyebrow at Abbie, who laughs. "Yet… often problems lie invisible, undetected, seemingly harmless." _Like Detective Morales,_ he adds mentally. _That issue is far from resolved._

"Which is why you had all these tests done, Baby," Abbie says, lifting up on tiptoe to kiss him. "Now, open the damn envelope."

"I think…" he hands it to Abbie. She sits on the couch and he joins her, sitting close by her side.

She smiles and opens the envelope, wondering if he's having her open it because he's worried about what it contains or because he's worried he won't be able to make sense out of the information inside. Perhaps both.

She opens the envelope and quickly scans the contents. "It's all here on the cover letter. You are, as you have previously stated, in perfect health," she says, pointing to the line stating _No health concerns at this time._

He smiles broadly and wraps Abbie in a tight hug.

"All these pages to tell me I am fine?" he asks, motioning to the stack still clutched in Abbie's hand.

"Well, these are the details. Tells you what your levels are for everything they tested. Vitamins, minerals, cholesterol, sugar. Exciting shit."

"Ah," he says, nodding.

"Ichabod."

"Forgive me," he says, caught. "I do not have the slightest idea what you are saying," he admits.

"Bottom line is, you're fine," she says, choosing to forego trying to explain things like malnourishment, high cholesterol, and diabetes. "If there's a sudden change in something, anything, that's when you need to worry. Like if you suddenly feel sluggish and tired all the time. Or… your vision starts getting blurry. Stuff like that."

"Do you have any of these health concerns? As your fiancé, I should be aware," he points out.

"I have to watch my cholesterol a bit. Not because I eat badly… well, okay, yes, I do, sometimes, but that's not really my fault, it's the job's. My family has a history of cholesterol issues, so I need to watch it."

"What is 'cholesterol'? The word etymology suggests…"

"It's like a fat that can build up in your veins if you don't limit your intake of it," Abbie says, cutting him off before he launches into a detailed explanation of root words, their meanings, and how the true definition is something like "flatulent toadstool."

"Ah. And how does one 'watch' this?"

"I shouldn't have too much fatty food and should get plenty of exercise. You'll discover more details when you look it up on Wikipedia later," she says, with a knowing smile.

"Ah, reading my mind already, my love," he says, bending to kiss her. "While we are on the subject of food…"

"Yeah, I'm hungry, too," she says, starting to stand.

"Abbie?" he stops her, his long fingers closing softly around her wrist, his thumb stroking her soft skin.

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," she says. "For what, exactly?"

He pulls her down onto his lap. "For looking after my health." He kisses her. "For looking after _me._ " He kisses her again. "For patiently explaining things I do not understand," another kiss, "especially when I do not want to admit that I do not understand them." Again. "And for loving me despite all that."

"Oh," she answers, smiling. _He really knows how to render a girl speechless._ She gathers her wits and continues. "You are very welcome. And thank _you_ for looking after me, even when I didn't think I needed looking after." She kisses him now. "And for being stubborn enough to knock down my walls." Another kiss. "And for loving me despite all that."

"My pleasure," he rumbles against her lips.

They kiss for a few pleasant minutes, but Abbie's empty stomach keeps her from pulling him down the hall to the bedroom.

"Crane," she says. "Supper."

"Yes," he agrees, giving her one more kiss and releasing her.

xXx

"Miss Mills, may I ask a question?" Crane asks, setting his fork down.

"You just did, but you can ask another," Abbie answers, smiling at his tendency to slip back into calling her "Miss Mills" or "Lieutenant" at random times. _I've grown to really like the British pronunciation of "Lieutenant". Especially when he says it._

He smiles. "Quite. It is a… delicate question…"

"Baby…" she starts, about to continue with the standard you-know-you-can-ask-me-anything line, but he holds up his hand.

"Yes, I know. I am wondering about those _condoms._ " As always, he pronounces the word with mild distaste.

"Specifically?"

He sighs, puzzled that she is not following his train of thought. _She knew my mind before… perhaps she is intentionally waiting for me to ask. Interesting._ "You had stated we could dispense with them if my health tests returned favorable."

"I did."

"So… am I to presume you wish to bear me a child? I mean… I would be honored, but we are not yet married, and…"

"Oh… _that,_ " Abbie says, leaning back. "About that. Yeah, I've been meaning to explain. I'm protected against pregnancy. The condoms were more for the possible-18th-century-cooties. Anyway, condoms are also used to keep anything _else_ that might be in your—"

Crane decides to bypass the word "cooties" for now. _More important matters._ "How, exactly, are you 'protected' against becoming with child?" he asks, curious.

"Medical science, my love. Nowadays, there are things a woman can do to prevent getting knocked up," she says, smirking at him as he mentally catalogs another new term. "Pills… um, devices. I have something inside me that stops me from getting pregnant." His eyes drop involuntarily to her stomach, and she smiles. "You can't see it, silly. I used to take the pill – birth control pills, they're called – but with a schedule like mine, I can't always take a pill at the same time every day, which is recommended in order for them to do their job. So, I have something called an IUD."

He gives her a look that clearly says _You know how I feel about acronyms, Miss Mills._

"Intra-Uterine Device. It's a little something inside my uterus – um, my womb – that keeps me from getting pregnant."

"That must have been a horrifying procedure!" he exclaims.

"It was really nothing. Okay, so it wasn't the most comfortable experience when the doctor put it in, but now, I don't feel it at all."

"Hmm," he says.

"You can look it up after you research cholesterol," she suggests, knowing he's already making plans to do so.

"I shall," he confirms.

"Anyway, now isn't exactly prime time for us to have a kid. Maybe one day, though. Are you all done?" she asks, indicating his plate.

"Yes. So, when you would like to bear a child, you just…?"

"Go to the doctor and have the IUD removed. Simple."

They begin clearing the dishes and cleaning up. " _Would_ you like to have a child with me, Abbie?" he asks quietly after a while, conscientiously drying dishes and putting them away.

Honestly, it _is_ something Abbie has thought about recently. Since she agreed to marry him. "Yes," she answers. "Once all this apocalypse mess is done and dusted. I cannot bring a child into a world that might be ending. Not to mention the fact that it would put me out of commission for a while, which, I believe, would be counterproductive to our goals."

"I agree, but… after our seven years, you'll be 35. Surely that's too old to have a child."

"Ichabod, women have babies well into their 40s now."

His eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead.

"I definitely don't want to wait _that_ long, but 35 isn't bad at all. Hell, I think I read something somewhere about a woman having a baby at, like, 64 or something. Just, no."

"Once again, I agree," Crane answers, looking somewhat aghast. _Another item to add to my list of Things to Research._ He snaps out of it quickly and leads her to the living room, where they sit on the couch again. "Abbie…" He reaches for her hands, holding them gently in his.

"Yeah?" she asks, expecting another question about contraception or babies or modern medicine.

"Detective Morales has been following you."

Abbie sighs. "He has not," she says, dismissing his warnings. Again. "It's not a very big town. Station house is small. We're bound to cross paths."

"It is more than crossing paths, Abbie. Much more. I've seen him several times now. Lurking. Hovering. In places where he has no call to be."

Abbie exhales, rolling her eyes.

Crane feels his frustration rising, but keeps it in check. "I ask you again to _please_ take care where he is concerned."

"You're totally overreacting." She attempts to withdraw her hands from his. He holds them tightly.

"Abbie, I am quite serious. Heed my words, I beg of you," he says.

"Luke isn't going to _do_ anything, Crane," she says, letting her annoyance show. "He's all bark. Always has been." She successfully withdraws her hands from his and crosses her arms over her chest.

"Abbie, please, you fail to understand the consequences—"

"Crane," Abbie interrupts, her voice edged with warning, "I know Luke better than—"

"You _must_ take precautions, Abbie!" Crane interrupts her in turn, reaching his hand to her shoulder.

She evades his grasp, scooting away just enough to make him drop his hand. "Look, I can take care of myself! I was doing just fine before you dropped into my life. Give it a rest!" she cuts him off sharply.

" _Listen to me, Abigail!_ " he snaps, raising his voice as well. "I will _not_ 'give it a rest'! This is more than harmless jealousy! This is obsession, and it is a dangerous one!"

Abbie watches him, wide-eyed, surprised at his tone. Then, she snaps out of her shock and fully releases her frustration. "Obsession on whose part, Crane? Yours or his?" she shoots back, standing. He can feel the tension and anger radiating from her small body. "You need to sort out your own jealousy before pointing fingers," she adds, stalking from the room.

A moment later, he hears the bedroom door slam.

Crane drops his head into his hands. _I shouldn't have raised my voice. But, she_ wouldn't _listen. She's so frustrating. Too stubborn for her own good._

_I simply do not know what I would do should any harm befall her._

Am _I jealous?_

_Of what would I be jealous? That Detective Morales had Miss Mills before I? That, had I not turned up and thrown her life into upheaval, they might have been able to reconcile?_

He leans back on the couch, staring at the black television screen. _To the former, yes. To the latter, no. They would not have reconciled. Miss Mills would have gone to that Quantico place and had the life she envisioned… she would have…_

_…_ _what was that?_

Crane stands. He just saw lights outside. They looked like headlights. He goes to the door and peeks out of the high window, cupping his hands around the sides of his face to block out the light from inside the house.

_Could be a traveler turning around in the drive… no. The car is parking._

He reaches back and flips off the light switch so he can see more clearly.

 _I have seen that automobile._ Just as he's about to put a name to the car, it pulls away. Slowly.

Instinctively, he waits, sitting in the dark near the curtains. He glances towards the hallway, thinking he really should go and speak with Abbie, to apologize for letting his frustration get the better of him.

But then he hears a car outside again.

 _This is a very quiet street. Cars do not drive on it without cause._ He's learned his way around well enough to know their house sits on a street that doesn't connect anyplace important to anyplace else important. So, the only cars driven here belong to either residents or those visiting said residents.

_This appears to be neither. And that is most definitely Detective Morales' car, circling the block a second time._

Crane sees the car park again, in front of the neighbors' house this time.

 _All right, clever dick, I will play your game._ He slips his coat and boots on, casts one slightly regretful look towards the hallway, and steps outside, walking purposefully but casually.

Crane steps onto the sidewalk, endeavoring to appear as though he is out for an evening constitutional. Luckily, they're having a slight warm spell (for Sleepy Hollow in January, mid-30-degree temperatures is considered a "warm spell"), so it does not look too strange for a man to go for a stroll.

He passes the detective's car, paying it no heed. As soon as he is sure he is out of sight, he ducks behind a large tree, doubling back through the neighbor's back yard, hoping Mrs. Eggert won't mind his trespassing, especially under these circumstances.

Crouching in the bushes beside their house, he waits. He knows it's coming. He knows _Luke_ is coming. He knows the jealousy-mad detective will not be able to resist the lure of Abbie, alone in her house.

 _I'm using the woman I love as bait,_ he realizes, faintly sickened by the thought. _However, it is the only way to resolve this._

As predicted, Luke appears, skulking up the front walk to the door.

_Good heavens, could he be more obvious?_

"Good evening, Detective," Crane intercepts him before he reaches the porch.

"Crane, what the fuck?" Luke jumps, surprised. "I just saw you…"

"Walking away from the house? Yes, I am aware. What is your business here this evening?"

"I want to talk to Abbie."

"Miss Mills is not available at the moment," Crane answers curtly, feeling a little bit of a heel, knowing his Lieutenant would not appreciate him speaking for her in this manner.

"Oh, really?" Luke sneers. "What are you, her secretary?"

"Detective—"

"No, you're not her secretary. From what I hear, you're her fiancé."

Crane is surprised Morales knows this, but maintains his composure, merely raising an eyebrow. "And I suppose you've come to talk her out of becoming my wife?"

"You're… not right for her. You don't love her the way _I_ love her," Luke says, taking a step towards Crane.

Crane remains still, determined to remain calm and level-headed in the presence of Luke's apparent instability. "Yes, I suppose that is true. I do not love her the way you do. I love her the way a man is supposed to love a woman. With respect and admiration. Appreciating her for who she is, loving the less appealing aspects of her character as much as the wonderful ones. Cherishing her and making her feel like she is the most important person in the world."

"I—"

" _Not_ trying to control her or keep her on a… what is that infernal phrase I heard? Keep her on a short leash. That, Detective, is _not_ love."

Luke steps closer to Crane again, threateningly, his fists clenched at his sides. "Look here, you skinny, pompous, British—"

Crane feels his control slipping a little as he stares disdainfully at the detective, clenching his hands behind his back. "Do you honestly expect Miss Mills to return to you? Do you honestly believe she will look on you favorably when all you've been doing is threatening her? Stalking her?"

"What?"

"Oh, yes, I've seen you lurking in the corridors of the station house. Loitering outside of the ladies' like a… a common _pervert_. Hanging about Miss Mills' desk just after she's left it, leaning down to _sniff her chair_." Crane makes a disgusted face at this last example. He chose not to impart that particularly depraved detail to Abbie. _Perhaps I should have._

"Hey, if you're spending all your time watching _me,_ doesn't that make _you_ the weirdo? I mean…"

"I am looking after the safety of the woman I love. Anything else you do with your time is of little concern to me. If you want to sniff someone else's chair, do feel free. Though, generally speaking, I would not recommend it."

"Look, Crane, I didn't come out here to talk to you. I want to see Abbie," Luke says, going back on the offensive.

"I am going to politely ask that you return to your automobile and leave," Crane says, his voice taking on a menacing edge. "I will only ask once."

"You can be as _polite_ as you want, man, I'm not leaving until I talk to Abbie."

"That will not be happening, Detective. I shall not let you pass." He crosses his arms over his chest now, a sentinel, tall and proud.

"You think I can't get past you?" Luke growls. He is three inches shorter than Crane, but more muscular. He reaches out and shoves Crane's chest.

Crane hardly budges, only swaying just slightly, taking Luke by surprise for the second time this evening. Once again, his rival had clearly underestimated him.

"Do not lay your hands on me again, Detective," Crane says, his voice very low and stern.

"Oh, really? What are you going to do? Slap me with a crumpet?" He pokes Crane in the chest. "Pour tea over my head?" He pokes him again, harder. "Report me to the _Queen_?" He reaches out with his finger again. This time, Crane nabs it and twists, wrenching Luke's arm behind his back. "Aaurghh! Fuck!"

"I did tell you not to lay your hands on me again. I am aware you only applied a single finger, but my patience is growing thin," he growls in Luke's ear.

"You're breaking my finger!"

"I assure you I am not. But, I could if I just…"

"Aaurghh!"

" _Still_ not broken. Return home, Detective. Make peace with the fact that Miss Mills is no longer yours. Accept this reality and move on with your life." Crane releases him, shoving him away as he does so. "I also recommend you seek counseling. Clearly, you have _issues_ that need resolving."

"Fuck you, you British asshole," Luke spits, rubbing his sore finger, not convinced it isn't broken.

"Go now and I shan't report your behavior to Captain Irving," Crane answers, stepping towards Luke now.

Luke takes a step back.

"However, if you continue to menace Miss Mills, you will leave me no choice."

"Your word against mine, Douche."

"Interesting. Miss Mills used the same epithet to describe you not long ago," Crane muses. "Leave or I shall call the authorities," he threatens again, reaching into his coat pocket for a phone that isn't there, hoping Morales will not call his bluff.

"Fine. I'm going. Fucknut." He spits one final insult at Crane before stomping back to his car.

"Reduced to name-calling, like an undisciplined child," Crane mutters as he watches Luke drive away. He stands outside for at least another five minutes, to ensure he doesn't return.

xXx

Crane is removing his boots when the screaming starts.

_Abbie!_

One boot still on, he bolts for the bedroom, fearing the worst: Luke has somehow snuck around to the back of the house and climbed in through their bedroom window.

He throws the door open and finds Abbie twisting on the bed, in the throes of a nightmare. Another scream rips from her throat and straight into Crane's heart. He dives for the bed, wrapping her in his arms.

Abbie struggles, momentarily fighting him. He embraces her fully and securely, so she lands no blows and leaves no bruises this time.

"It's me. Ichabod. You're safe, Treasure, I have you," he soothes, whispering low in her ear as she calms and her body stills. He feathers soft kisses on her face, his hands stroke her back and hair. "Shh, Love…"

She slowly blinks her eyes open, staring up at him for what feels like an eternity. Then, something seems to snap inside her and she huddles against him, pushing herself further into his embrace, burying her face in his neck. He can feel her tears, warm and wet, against his skin.

"It's all right, I'm here," he whispers, kissing her hair, all the earlier frustration and anger dissolving away in the face of more important issues.

They lay quietly for another minute before Abbie finally speaks. "What happened?" she asks, looking up at him.

"You must have fallen asleep. I wasn't here," he explains, gently wiping her tear-stained cheeks with his thumb. "Clearly, you did not intend to fall asleep; you're still dressed."

"Why weren't you here?" she asks.

"I was… outside," he answers. _Now is not the time._

"I was mad at you," she says, remembering. "I was mad at you because you were expressing your concern for me." She frowns. "Sorry."

"Forgiven, my love," he whispers, stroking her face. "However, you were right. I am jealous."

"I know."

"I am jealous of any man who enjoyed your affections before me. I am greedy for your love, you see." He kisses her forehead.

" _You_ were married," she points out.

"I did not say I was not a hypocrite," he adds, and she laughs. "But, I must tell you I was also correct."

"Ichabod…"

"Are you not wondering _why_ I was outside, Abbie?" he asks.

"A bit, yeah."

"You had an unwelcome visitor."

Abbie sits up. "What?"

"Detective Morales somehow learned of our betrothal, and decided the most logical plan was to come here and attempt to convince you not to marry me."

Abbie's eyes widen in disbelief, her mouth dropping open momentarily. "Shit," she breathes. Then she sighs, dropping her head. "I suppose you sent him packing," she says, lifting her head again and raising an eyebrow at him.

"Was I not correct to do so?" Crane inquires, angling his head up at her.

"No, you were correct. I just… hate you fighting my battles for me."

"We are partners, are we not? Not only partners, but lovers and friends. You would have done the same for me."

 _Damn. He's got me there._ "Sorry. You're right, I would. What happened?"

He tells her everything. As expected, she looks ill when he tells her about Morales smelling her chair, declaring it "gross" and "twisted."

"You should have broken his finger. Would have given him a reminder," Abbie declares once he's finished his tale.

"It will be nicely bruised. He can tell people he got it caught in a door," Crane says.

"He certainly underestimated you," she says, lying back down again.

"Indeed. But if he knew the truth, that I was a soldier in the Revolutionary War, he might not have felt the same way."

"He would never believe the truth anyway," she says.

"Perhaps he would. His sanity is precarious at best, and both you and the captain seem to believe that particular quality is a prerequisite in understanding what we're dealing with."

Abbie snorts a laugh. "Maybe. Still don't think we need to let him into our Secret Club."

"Indeed not," he sighs.

"I'm so sorry, Ichabod. I shouldn't have dismissed your concerns. I'll keep my eyes wide open now."

"Thank you, Abbie. And be informed, my love. I'll continue to look after you as well."

"Understood," she says, snuggling against him, her stockinged feet brushing against his legs. "Why do you only have on one boot?"


	16. Chapter 16

"We should order in dinner," Abbie says as they walk into the house almost a week later. She reaches for her phone in her pocket to find it absent. "You want Chinese, or pizza, or… where the hell is my phone?" she asks, patting herself down. "Maybe it's in the car…"

"I don't believe it is, Abbie," Crane says, shrugging out of his coat. "I do not recall seeing it."

"Maybe it fell out and is between the seats or on the floor… be right back," she says, heading back outside again.

She feels around between the seats and peeks under the seat. Nothing.

Sighing, she heads back inside. "I bet it's at the station," she declares. "I'll just run back and get it. I'll order us food on the way home; what do you want?"

"Surely you could leave your phone for one night," he suggests, wrapping his arms around her.

"No can do. What if our friend Headless decides to make an appearance? They'd have no way of contacting us. And that would be bad."

Crane sighs and kisses her forehead. "You are correct, my love. Make haste, then." He lifts her chin and kisses her lips.

"Twenty minutes," she says, pecking his lips once. "And you still haven't told me what you want to eat."

"You may choose. Surprise me."

"Okay," she says. "You gonna let go of me?" she asks, chuckling, as he hasn't released his hold on her.

"If I must," he answers dramatically, stepping back and bowing with a flourish. Abbie laughs harder, secretly loving it when he behaves all 18th-century towards her.

"Twenty minutes, Baby," she calls, shutting the door behind her.

xXx

Abbie walks quickly but carefully back into the station house, not wishing to slip and fall on the dusting of snow covering the ice-riddled blacktop of the parking lot.

She nods at the skeleton crew of officers on the night shift, heading to her desk.

"Hey, Mills, what are you doing back?" an officer asks.

"I think I left my phone here," she answers, looking under the papers littering her desk.

"What's the number? I'll call it for you," he offers, lifting the handset of his desk phone.

"Thanks, Larry," she says and gives him the number.

"Ringing," he says. Abbie listens, and hears nothing.

"Voicemail," he declares, hanging up. "Sorry."

"Thanks, anyway," she answers. "I bet it's… yeah. It's probably down there." She heads towards the archives, where she and Crane had spent the better part of their day.

She hears her phone ringing as soon as she enters the large room, but she doesn't see it. "Shit, where are you?" she mutters, following the sound. She finds it on a bookshelf along one wall.

"How the hell did it get here?" she wonders aloud, looking at the caller just as the phone stops ringing. Crane, calling from the house phone. Of course. She swipes the screen on and is just about to dial him back when she feels a pair of strong arms grab her and a cloth is pressed to her face.

Then, everything goes black.

xXx

_Twenty minutes has passed ten minutes ago. She's not answering her smart-phone. I've left several voicemail messages for her._

Crane is pacing now, trying to decide what to do. He's becoming very worried.

_Perhaps she is still looking for her phone._

_Perhaps Detective Morales intercepted her._

_Perhaps she was detained in conversation with someone._

He stops pacing in the middle of the living room, staring at nothing.

_Perhaps the Horseman made a return._

_Perhaps Moloch sent forth more minions._

_Or perhaps Detective Morales intercepted her._

_Intercepted her and somehow ensured she is not able to answer her phone._

_That appears to be the likeliest option._

He picks up the phone again and dials. No answer. He doesn't leave another voicemail. He disconnects the call and dials another number.

"Please answer…" he mutters.

"Irving."

"Captain, Ichabod Crane," Crane answers, trying not to sound too worried.

"Crane? Why the hell are _you_ calling me after hours?"

"I fear something has happened to Lieutenant Mills," he says.

"What do you mean, 'something'?"

Crane quickly fills him in. "She left more than 30 minutes ago, and she is not answering her phone. I have come to the conclusion that there must be a reason why she is not answering," he finishes.

Irving sighs. "Yeah, a reason like maybe she hasn't found her phone?"

"Captain, are you aware Detective Morales has been stalking Miss Mills?"

"What? I mean, I know they dated, and I know he's been kind of sniffing around the two of you a bit—" Crane cringes at Irving's unfortunate word choice, "—but _stalking?_ Come on, Crane, that's a bit extreme."

"Captain, what purpose would it serve for me to falsely accuse Morales? And, might I remind you, you repeatedly point out my lack of skill for telling falsehoods," Crane argues. "The detective came here one night last week, uninvited." He goes on to quickly explain what happened.

"You're engaged? How did he know and I didn't? And why the hell didn't you tell me?"

"Priorities, Captain," Crane interrupts impatiently.

"Sorry," he apologizes. "What's your address? I'll come pick you up."

" _Thank you_ ," Crane sighs heavily, grateful. That's all he wanted anyway.

xXx

Abbie wakes, groggy, her head pounding. Her shoulders are stiff. Her butt feels like it's asleep.

"Ohhh…" _Where the hell am I? What happened? My phone… someone grabbed me…_

"Sorry, mi amor," a familiar voice reaches her ears. "I wasn't sure you'd come with me willingly, so I had to improvise."

"Fuck… Luke, what the hell?" Abbie wills herself awake, lifting her head on its stiff neck. She blinks her eyes open and sees nothing but a dark blur. The air is cold, stale, and damp, but earthy and familiar. _Am I in the tunnels?_

She tries to move and finds her arms are tied to the arms of a wooden chair; her legs to the chair's legs. "Zip ties, seriously? Are you _completely_ insane?" she asks, squirming, trying to will some feeling back into her butt. She shakes her head, trying to clear the cobwebs.

"Now, now, struggling only makes it worse," he says, coming around to stand in front of her. Her cell springs to life somewhere behind her and he scowls at it. "Your idiot _fiancé_ doesn't know how to take a hint," he growls, spitting the word "fiancé" like a curse.

"Are you _completely_ stupid? He's going to come looking for me," she says channeling her fear into bravado. "Ugh, my mouth feels like it's full of cotton balls."

"How? Professor doesn't drive. And even if he did, you left his skinny British ass at home, with no car."

Abbie says nothing, knowing Crane is nothing if not surprisingly resourceful.

Luke brings another chair over. "Abbie," he says softly, sitting in front of her, leaning his elbows on his knees. "We need to talk."

"We do not," Abbie argues. "Everything I have to say to you, I've said."

"We'll see about that," he says. "I know you still have feelings for me, Abbie."

"Oh, yeah, I got _feelings_ all right. You probably don't want to know what they are," she says sarcastically.

"I _know_ what they are," he says softly, tracing her cheek with his finger. She turns her head away, trying to escape his touch. "Don't fight it, Abbie. You know you still love me."

"I _don't_ love you, Luke. I never did," she says, twisting her face away from him yet again. Her arms automatically pull at their binds, causing the thick plastic to cut into her flesh.

"Oh, Abbie, you are so deep in denial," he purrs, leaning in closer and inhaling deeply. "Ah… you always smell so good."

"You are sick." Abbie squirms again, even though she knows it's hopeless. She so busy concentrating on trying to put some distance between them that she doesn't notice Luke has picked something up from what must be a table or something behind her.

"I'll uncover the truth the hard way if I have to," he says in her ear, his lips intentionally brushing against it. Then, he kisses her cheek before running something cool and plastic along her skin.

Abbie angles her head, simultaneously trying to get away from whatever it is and trying to see _what_ it is.

Then, she notices she does not feel her necklace slide across her chest. It is gone. _Shit._

She gets no time to dwell on this tragedy, because she is suddenly distracted by the sharp sting of a needle piercing her skin.

The plastic thing was a syringe.

 _Uncover the truth._ Abbie looks at him, eyes wide in disbelief. "Sodium pentothal?" she asks.

He nods. "Of course."

Truth serum.

"Seriously, Luke? What is this, a spy movie from the 1960s? Whoa…" Her head starts to swim a little, and she is glad she's sitting down.

xXx

"Forget something, Captain?" Larry asks, looking up as Irving and Crane hurry through.

"Was Mills here earlier?" Irving asks.

"Yeah, she was looking for her phone. Went that way," he points.

"Did she return?" Crane asks, trying not to sound too anxious.

"I didn't see her come back this way, but that doesn't mean she didn't," Larry says. "She would have said goodbye, I would think…"

"Thank you, Officer," Crane answers, heading in the direction in which Larry had pointed.

Towards the archives.

"Crane, you don't honestly think she's still down there, do you?" Irving asks, his hand wanting to reach for his sidearm, out of pure reflex. He's on edge, worried about Abbie and wracking his brain, trying to recall if he saw any signs of trouble amongst his staff, particularly between Luke and Abbie.

"No, I do not. But, she might have been taken from there, Captain," Crane says, pushing the doors open.

 _He's holding it together, but fidgeting more than usual. He must really be upset._ Irving notes how Crane's fingers, usually flexing and twitching, are practically flying, even with his hands clasped behind his back.

The archives are empty, as Crane expected. He walks in slowly, eyes sweeping. He heads left; Irving heads right.

"She was here," Crane says.

"You found something?"

"Not yet. But, her fragrance lingers in the air…" he says, his voice trailing off as his eyes continue to scan.

"Man, you have got it bad," Irving comments.

"Do you not know your wife's fragrance, Captain? Do you not notice when it lingers in a room she has recently vacated, an invisible reminder of her beauty and femininity?"

Irving stares. "Yes, I do," he says, a bit sadly. "Damn, man, no wonder the ladies love you," he adds quietly, shaking his head.

"Pardon?" Crane asks, not quite hearing the second comment.

"Nothing. See anything?"

"I do not see her smart-phone, but there are some vaguely boot-shaped puddles on the floor, and… wait…" he crouches down beside the bookshelf, lifting Abbie's necklace from the floor. The walls seem to tilt as he rises unsteadily to his feet. "Oh, dear," he whispers. It's all he can manage.

"What did you find?" Irving jogs over. "That's hers. I've seen her wearing it recently." He stares down at the small ruby pendant resting on Crane's palm. He notes that Crane's hand is shaking. _I've never seen him so rattled. Even when that mess with Katrina happened, he wasn't this troubled. He's trying to hide his fear for Abbie by concentrating on finding her._

"It was my Christmas gift to her," Crane says softly, his voice wavering for the first time. "And now, the chain is broken."

"You can get a new chain. You _can't_ get a new Abbie," Irving says, placing his hand on the taller man's shoulder and giving a supportive squeeze. Crane's eyes widen, the gravity of Irving's words hitting him full force. Irving claps him on the shoulder, attempting to bolster him. "Come on. We need to look for more clues." He thinks for a moment. "Where is the nearest entrance to the tunnels?"

Crane stares at the pendant in his hand, picturing how it rests against Abbie's chest, glinting in the light as she turns. Remembering how her eyes lit up when she opened the box and how she had kissed him afterwards. He runs his fingers over the pendant, allowing his worry to distract him for just a moment.

"Crane?" Irving prompts.

"This way," Crane says, clearing his throat, pocketing the necklace, and heading towards the opening he uncovered shortly after his arrival here.

He pushes aside the shelf they placed in front of the hole he made (to cover it up, of course), and he steps on something soft.

"What…?" Crane picks up a white handkerchief. He rubs the material between his fingers thoughtfully, and is about to bring it to his nose when Irving's hand closes around his wrist.

"I wouldn't," he warns. "It's likely soaked with chloroform. You smell that, you may find yourself out cold."

"Thank you," he nods. "Presumably, we are on the correct path, then."

"Yep." Irving switches on a flashlight, draws his revolver, and enters the tunnels with Crane.

xXx

"Abbie, focus," Luke says, pulling a chair up in front of her. "Look at me."

Abbie had been staring at the ceiling. She turns her head to look at Luke, and her face scrunches into a deep frown.

"Abbie," he urges, trying to stamp down his growing irritation and fear that he may have given her too much truth serum. _She's not very big._ "Remember how good we were together? How good I was to you; how I would take care of you?"

"You… smothered me, Luke," Abbie says, her words slightly slurred, as though she's had a few too many cocktails. "If you could have had me on a… leash, you would have. Or locked me in a tower, surrounded by a moat."

"You know that's not true," he says. "Don't you remember that night after the fireworks? We went back to my place and had a few fireworks of our own," he says.

"Yeah… fireworks. Ssssssss…" she makes an explosion sound, followed by a loud, wet raspberry. "Hot for just a second, then… all done! And when it's over, you wonder what the big deal was…" she says, rolling her eyes.

Luke sneers and his knuckles turn pale as his hands clench the arms of his chair, attempting to push down his rising temper. _Focus on your goal._ "We were good together, Abbie… we were…" he says, his voice faltering a moment. He squares his shoulders. "We were," he repeats, decisively.

"Who are you tryin' to convince, me or you?" she drawls, head lolling to the side before she catches herself and rights it. _Someone has to stop the walls from moving. Keep him talking, Abbie. Buy time._

"Abbie…" he scoots his chair closer.

"Luke…" Abbie says, drawing his name out, "we had some… what's the word? Laughs. Yeah, laughs. But, I don't love you."

"I suppose you think you love _him_?" he spits, sneering.

"Ichabod him? Yep. I love him. _Not_ you. Never you."

"NO!" Luke roars, fists pounding the arms of his chair. "You don't! You can't! He's… _wrong._ There's something _off_ about him."

"He was in the Revolutionary War," Abbie blurts. _Shut up_. Her eyes widen. "He was a Redcoat and switched sides."

Luke stares. _Maybe I did give her too much… she's talking crazy now._

"Ichabod is amazing… remembers everything. Like, _everything. You_ couldn't even remember my birthday," she says accusingly.

Luke grabs her face in his hand, squeezing painfully, snapping her out of her reverie. "Stop! Stop talking about him, Abbie! Look at _me!_ You don't love him. You love _me_!"

Abbie winces. His strong fingers are digging into her flesh. "I don't," she grunts. "Never did."

"You have a strong will, mi amor," he says, loosening his fingers on her face just enough to slide it down and close around her neck. He squeezes _just_ hard enough to shock her into stillness and silence. "But I'm stronger. _I'm_ better." He leans in closer still, his face inches from hers. "You. Are. _Mine._ No one else's. _Nobody's_." He releases her neck, then brings his hand up and caresses her cheek softly, like a lover.

"No." It's out before she could stop it; a squeak, but it was enough. He heard it, and his temper flares again.

"Maybe you need a reminder," he growls. Then, he leans forward and kisses her forcefully, mashing her lips with his. His hand on her face moves, gripping her face again. Their teeth clack together painfully, and Abbie whimpers.

The hand not holding her face reaches up and closes over one of her breasts, squeezing it, softly at first. Then, as Luke forces his tongue into her mouth, he squeezes the breast harder, almost painfully.

Abbie bites down on his tongue. Hard.

"Ai! Fuck! You bitch!" Luke jerks away and immediately backhands her, leaving her cheek stinging.

Abbie grunts with the blow, but refuses to cry out. _Not in a million years._

Luke leans back and brings his hand to his mouth. He tastes blood, so he pulls out a (presumably chloroform-free) handkerchief and presses it against the bite mark Abbie left there. "Thit, that hurths," he lisps around his injured tongue. He looks at the bloodied fabric and tosses it to the ground. He takes a deep breath and mutters something to himself, looking at the ceiling. "I'm sorry I had to do that, Abbie," he says, lowering his face to look at her again. He suddenly sounds remorseful, but the evil glint remains in his dark eyes. "But, you gave me no choice. You _made_ me hit you."

"Fuck you," she says. _Keep him talking, keep him talking…_ "Let me go, Luke," Abbie slurs. "I've got… important shit to do, man…"

"What, like make wedding planth?"

Abbie blows another raspberry at him. "No, Sylvester the Cat, me and Crane got _demons_ to fight…" _Shut up about the demons!_

"Demonth? Are you theriouth?" Luke's tongue feels like it's about half again larger than its normal size.

"Yup… demons… Even if I wasn't in love with Crane… I couldn't be with your sorry ass… Too much _shit_ going on that I gotta deal with… Apocalyptic shit… That's why you gotta let me go. I can't be with you, Luke. It won't work. The Headless Douchebag and Moloch are plotting the end of the world… and…" she pauses again, trying to stop the flow of words, "and Crane and I are the only people who can stop 'em." Her head flops against the back of the chair. "Demons are a huge pain in the ass…"

"Okay, okay, Abbie… I think I gave you too much pentothal… you're saying some pretty crazy shit," Luke says, ignoring the pain in his tongue and willing himself to speak normally.

"Oh, yeah," Abbie continues, her _keep him talking_ mantra still running through her head, now accompanied by _go with crazy._ "The end is near, Lucas Enrique Morales y Rodriguez," she declares, attempting to sound prophetic. "Repent! Confess your sins before the rapture is upon us! The demons will rise up and carry all you sinners away to feast on your flesh…" she falters a moment, unable to keep up with her own charade. _But, it's not really a charade. That's the problem._

"Enough!" Luke snaps. "Stop fucking talking about fucking demons!" His fists are clenched at his sides, and he clenches his jaw until his breathing returns to normal. _Logic. Try logic._ He leans forward, wrapping his strong fingers around her arms, squeezing _just_ hard enough. "Abbie. Crane's only going to hurt you. He's going to go back to England at some point and leave you here. He'll be gone. One way or another, he'll leave you. _I'll_ always be here for you." His tone is now soft, almost condescending, as if he is talking to a disobedient child.

"Bullshit," Abbie slurs, head bobbing a little. _So dizzy… need to stop mouthing off about demons…_ "You were ready to… bail as soon as you found out I was going to Quantico."

" _You_ broke up with _me_ ," he reminds her, jostling her chair as his temper starts to flare again.

"Yeah… 'cause I didn't _love_ you, dumbass…" she taunts, but her bravery is floundering. Especially when he stands again and reaches for something on the unseen table behind her, the contents of which are getting more and more worrisome as the minutes tick by.

Something cold and metallic slides softly across her cheek. "Abbie… mi amor… you need to remember how much you love me… because you do." Luke's voice is soft and low, menace disguised as seduction.

Abbie presses her lips together to keep the words in.

He shows her the knife, shiny and sharp. "Don't make me bring my friend to the party. He's not as forgiving as I am," he says, dragging the blade down her chest, between her breasts, not cutting her, just touching. He drags it all the way down her torso, lingering between her legs, slowly sliding it back and forth against her crotch a few times until he jams it into the wood between her parted thighs, making her jump. "Now. Mr. Knife will stay there unless you start telling me what I want to hear."

"I…" Abbie struggles with the words. Her head is swimming, her heart is pounding, and all she can think is _I am going to die._ "I… can't do that," she grunts.

"Well, then, since being nice isn't working…" Luke pulls the knife free of the wood, causing Abbie to jump again, and waves it menacingly. "Where, oh, where…?" He moves the knife to her neck, hesitating by her collarbones. He studies her chest, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully. He moves the knife, quick as lightning, and slices the collar of her shirt, rending it down the middle, exposing her bra. Abbie holds her breath, afraid to move, afraid to even make a sound. Her heart is pounding so hard Luke can probably see it.

He drags the blade softly over the exposed tops of her breasts, his face void of emotion as he calculates whatever perverse plan is rolling around in his brain. Then, he circles the tip of the blade around one of Abbie's (thankfully covered) nipple, pondering. Abbie's fingers clutch the arms of the chairs. She wants to struggle, to pull away, but she knows, right now, she must stay perfectly still.

"No, it would be a pity to mar your lovely skin there…" he finally says, licking his lips in a very unsettling way.

"What are you doing?" she asks, a whisper.

He reaches down and slices her sleeve from elbow to wrist. The knife hovers over her forearm. "No, not… _meaningful_ enough…" he mutters. Then, her question seems to have registered with him. "I'm going to make sure you know who you belong to," he says.

"To whom you belong." Again, the words slip out without consent, and it earns her another slap.

"Don't fucking correct me! You always do that! You're always so perfect!" His face turns from angry to something else, something calmer, but no less sinister. Calculating. "Yes, so perfect… which is why I need to…" his voice trails off as he stares at her legs. "Yes."

He reaches down with the knife and, with almost surgical precision, slices her jeans, just beside the inseam, exposing the soft brown skin of her inner thigh.

xXx

"I hear something," Crane whispers. "Extinguish your light, Captain." The narrow beam of light disappears. "This way."

"Ai! Fuck! You bitch!"

Luke's shout surprises them and they stop walking for just a moment. Crane turns and raises an alarmed eyebrow at Irving.

"That way," Irving nods, his mouth set in a grim line.

They creep closer to the sounds. The voices are indistinct, but are growing louder.

"…can't do that." Abbie's voice, slurred but definitely and clearly hers, reaches their ears.

They stop, seeing light around a corner, and wait for their opportunity. Irving still has his revolver at the ready.

"You mean to shoot?" Crane asks, his voice a bare whisper.

"If I have to. Abbie is your fellow Witness, which means she's much more valuable than Morales, even if she wasn't your fiancée."

"I believe Detective Morales is ill, Captain. Surely he needs treatment, not punishment."

"That remains to be seen," Irving says, studying Crane's face. _He's defending the man who's kidnapped his woman. I do not get him._ "All right, then, what do we do?"

"Holster your weapon, and…"

Abbie's scream cuts off any plan Crane was about to outline. They move.

xXx

"Detective Morales," Irving's voice sounds from behind Abbie. His voice is calm and soft. Soothing. "Release Lieutenant Mills. Please."

"Captain!" Luke jumps, startled. The knife in his hand clatters to the floor and a line of blood blooms on Abbie's exposed thigh where Luke had made a slice about one inch long. "I… she… she still loves me, I know it."

"Mmm," Irving says noncommittally.

"I don't!" Abbie protests. She notices some movement just behind Luke, but wills her eyes to stay put.

"Not helping, Mills," Irving almost sings, his voice nearer.

"D-don't come any closer, Captain," Luke stammers, reaching for his weapon. As soon as he draws it, Crane's hand closes tightly around his wrist, wrenching his arm behind his back and removing the gun.

"That's quite enough, Detective," Crane says.

"Get off me, you asshole!" Luke struggles, surprised at the slender Englishman's strength. He now has both of Luke's arms pinned behind him.

"Luke Morales, you are under arrest…" Irving starts, walking forward again.

Luke ignores him, struggling harder now. "No! She doesn't love you, you British puto! You can't have her! If I can't have her, _no one—_ "

His words stop abruptly as Crane swiftly clubs Luke over the head with the butt of his pistol. He falls unconscious, and Crane drops him like a hot potato, gingerly stepping over his limp form to get to Abbie.

Irving steps forward, handcuffs Luke, and rolls him onto his side as Crane hurries to Abbie.

"Ichabod, you came…" she says, smiling at him even as tears fall from her eyes. These are tears of relief and happiness, much different than the ones caused by the pain from Luke's knife.

"Of course I did, my love," he answers, dropping to his knees in front of her. He kisses her once, thumbs her tears away, and quickly checks her over. He attempts to close her shirt, frowning when he discovers it to be a useless endeavor. His eyes pause at the slit in her jeans and the cut on her skin, troubled and confused, unsure of what Luke's intent was there. He withdraws a handkerchief from his coat and lowers his hand to her leg.

"Don't touch it, Crane," Irving says, stopping him. He's got his phone in his hand. "You can in a second, I mean," he amends, lifting his phone to take a photo of Abbie's thigh.

"Captain, is this truly necessary?" Crane asks.

"Yes, it is," Abbie says. "It's evidence. He's not compromising my virtue, Ichabod."

Irving snaps a photo of Abbie's leg. Then, he takes one of her whole body, strapped to the chair, and, finally, a close-up of her face, where faint finger marks and bruising can be seen. He steps back again, waving his hand to allow Crane to resume his task.

Crane leans forward and gently dabs the cut on her leg. "I have no… band-aids on my person, Love, but we will properly dress this when we return home. Then, he turns his attention to the thick plastic straps binding her wrists and ankles. "Plastic, bah," he grumbles.

"You need a knife or some scissors, Baby," she says. She leans her head back again. "I'm tired…"

"We'll have you home soon." His eyes flit briefly and disdainfully to Luke's discarded knife on the floor, but he doesn't retrieve it to free Abbie. Not only does he not _want_ to touch it, he also knows it may be needed as evidence. "Captain, might you have a knife?"

"Yes," Irving says, pulling out a pocketknife, first unfolding it for him. He's studying the table behind Abbie. "Morales, you sick son of a…" He snaps a photo of the table's contents: an empty syringe, a small brown bottle, another handkerchief, an opened packet of zip ties, and, most disturbingly, a single red rose and a condom. And Abbie's phone.

Crane carefully slices through the zip ties at her wrists and ankles. Ignoring the red marks on her wrists, Abbie immediately wraps her arms around his neck, falling into his lap and collapsing over him. He sets the knife on the chair and holds her, stroking her back, whispering in her ear.

"Take her home, Crane." Irving says, pretending he doesn't notice the extra moisture in Crane's eyes. "Take her home and take good care of her. I'll deal with this mess." He moves to stand in front of the table, blocking it from view. Crane notices him shift and nods once, just slightly, and a silent message passes between the two men: _Abbie doesn't need to see this right now._

"Of course, Captain, thank you," Crane answers, standing carefully, pulling Abbie gently up with him.

"Wait, do you need a ride? I don't think Mills should be driving," Irving says, handing Abbie's phone to her. "Mills, what did he drug you with?" He bends down and picks Abbie's coat up off the floor.

"Sodium pentothal," she answers, swaying as Crane assists her in putting on her coat. She puts her phone in her pocket, patting it.

"Definitely not driving. I can call up to…"

"I am capable of piloting Miss Mills' motorcar, Captain," Crane says, his arm supporting Abbie as she leans against him. "She has been teaching me, and I am certain I can get us home 'in one piece,' as they say."

"You're sure?" he asks, assessing Crane's mental and emotional state as well. _He seems okay, but I don't know how much longer he'll be able to hold it together. Still, he's more fit to drive than she is._

"Quite," he answers.

"Okay, then. Mills, I don't have to remind you not to wash or mend those clothes, do I?" Irving asks, bending his head to look her in the eye.

"No," she says, rolling her eyes. "I know the drill."

"Good. All right. Go home. I don't want to see you tomorrow, but I will be calling you," he says.

"Thank you, Captain," Crane says. He looks down at Abbie, still clinging to him. "Shall we go home, Treasure?"

She smiles. "I like it when you call me that. Yes. Home." She takes a step and stumbles, her legs unable or unwilling to support her.

Crane leans down and scoops her into his arms, nods once at Irving, and strides from the tunnels.

"My necklace is gone, Ichabod," she says sadly, suddenly remembering its absence.

"Shh, I have it, Love. It needs a new chain, but I have it," he answers soothingly. "I found it on the floor of the archives. He must have ripped it from your neck in a fit of jealousy."

Her head slumps onto his shoulder. "I love you." _Don't think about what just happened. Think about him._

"I know, Darling. I love you, too. Let's get you home."

He carries her out of the station via a little-used side door to spare her the embarrassment of being paraded through the main station house. It means more walking outside in the cold, but he doesn't mind.

"Abbie, where are your keys?" he asks. She reaches her hand into her coat pocket and presses the button on the fob twice to unlock all the doors.

"Thank you," he says, setting her on her feet close to the car, so she can lean against it. He opens the door and guides her into the passenger seat, then leans in to fasten her seat belt.

She kisses him as he does so, pressing the keys into his hand. "You're too good to me," she says softly. "I'm so difficult… moody… distant… I don't deserve you, you know…"

"Stop, now," he says quietly, kissing her again. "You are none of those things. I treat you just as you deserve, my love."

Crane closes the door softly, quickly makes his way to the drivers' side, and slides behind the wheel. He glances over at Abbie, intending to continue his reassurances that she is neither difficult nor moody. _Sometimes distant, but she is striving to improve._ Her eyes are closed. He watches her closely for a moment. She is breathing normally and her head is not slumped over, so he lets her rest, choosing to concentrate on driving.

Abbie opens her eyes when she feels the car move, turning her head to watch him. "I like watching you do things," she says. She feels heavy. Sleepy. The drug is slowly wearing off, but her mouth is still working. It's just telling different truths now.

"I, also, enjoy watching you 'do things,' Abbie," he says, keeping his eyes on the road.

Abbie smiles. He drives with textbook precision, better than her. Exactly at the speed limit. Hands at ten and two. Hesitating just a moment when the light turns green to ensure no car is going to push through the red light. Coming to a complete stop at stop signs.

"You're cute, do you know that?" she asks.

They are at a stoplight, so he spares her a glance, raising an eyebrow at her.

"You _are_ ," she insists.

A few minutes later, he turns the car onto their street and pulls into the driveway. "I'll go unlock the door and come back for you. Stay there, please." He walks to the door, unlocking it and opening it slightly.

Abbie is opening the car door when he returns, and he tuts at her. "I did ask you to stay there, Miss Mills," he says, offering her his hand.

"I know," she answers, offering no further explanation, but allowing him to help her to her feet. "I wanna try to walk…"

"I think that is a good idea," he says, supporting her waist as they slowly walk to the door. He pushes it open and guides her inside, seating her on the sofa before going back to close and lock the door.

She's shrugging off her coat when he returns, and he takes it from her to hang up. He makes certain to take her phone — the cause of this problem — out of the pocket before placing her coat in the closet.

"Luke pickpocketed my phone," Abbie says when Crane hands it to her. "It's the only… 'splanation. He took it so I'd have to come back. He used to tease me about having my phone… permanently attached to my hand."

"I wondered as much," Crane says, sitting beside her. "How is your leg?" he asks, looking at the tear in her jeans.

"Stings. Stopped bleeding, though," she says, looking at it. _Bastard ruined my jeans and my shirt. Though, he could have done so much worse._

"We shall have to clean it thoroughly. Heaven only knows where that knife has been," he comments.

"Later," she sighs, leaning back on the couch.

He pulls her feet into his lap and starts untying her boots for her, removing them. "Abbie, how are you feeling? Do you require anything? I'm afraid I am unfamiliar with this… sodium pentothal, and am at a bit of a loss."

"I don't know… I'm tired… kinda hungry." She lifts her head from the back of the couch. "We never got dinner. You must be starving."

"Food ceased to be important the moment I suspected something happened to you," he says, massaging her foot as he speaks. "But I believe I could manage a couple of toasted cheese sandwiches."

"Yeah," she sighs. "Can you bring me some Tylenol first? My head is starting to pound."

He stands and guides her so she is lying down on the couch. "Of course," he says. He kisses her forehead, hands her the remote control, and heads to the kitchen.

xXx

"Abbie, may I draw you a bath?" he asks after their light supper of grilled cheese and cheddar flavored Sun Chips (Crane's latest obsession), consumed in front of yet another episode of _Iron Chef America._

"That sounds good," Abbie says. The drug has mostly worn off. Her head is still pounding and she feels ragged. Crane has catered to her every need, despite not exactly knowing what those needs are.

He retrieves her from the couch five minutes later to escort her to her bath. The soothing scent of lavender swirls in the air. She moves to sit on the closed toilet lid, but he stops her. "If you sit, we'll never get you undressed and into your bath," he says.

"You just wanna undress me," she says, smiling weakly.

"I do generally enjoy doing so, yes," he admits, helping her with her shirt and jeans.

"Gotta put my hair up," she says, standing in her bra and panties.

"Allow me," he says, gently gathering her hair and twisting it until it lays upward against her head in a surprisingly adequate French twist, where he secures it with a large clip.

"I'm not even gonna ask," Abbie sighs.

"I've seen you do it dozens of times, Abbie," he says, leaning down to kiss her cheek. He unclasps her bra and allows her to slip her panties off, steadying her when she wobbles.

"Whoa… bending over is bad," she says. He helps her into the tub, supporting her all the way down. He sees to it that she is comfortable, even placing a rolled-up towel behind her neck as a makeshift pillow, and turns to leave.

"Stay," she says. "Please."

"Might I go fetch the iPad? I should like to read up on this drug with which the detective injected you," he says.

"Yeah, go ahead. Come right back," she sighs, closing her eyes.

"Do not fall asleep in the bath, Love," he says, exiting. He's back in seconds, iPad in hand, and seats himself on the toilet lid.

"Abbie?"

Her eyes are closed. "I'm awake. Gonna need more Tylenol before bed. There's a marching band doing a halftime show inside my skull."

He gives her a blank look. "Marching band… halftime show…?"

She opens her eyes. "Look it up, Baby. You have your toy there," she says, realizing that while he's seen plenty of football on TV, the halftime show is never broadcast except during the Super Bowl, and it's _never_ a marching band.

"I shall. Later. How are you faring, my sweet? You've been through quite an ordeal this evening. Are you—"

"I don't think I'm ready to discuss it yet," she cuts him off, raising a sudsy hand out of the water. "When my head is clear again, _then_ I'll take ten seconds to analyze this evening and how it's affected my emotional well-being. Right now, all I want to do is soak here until my fingers are pruney, then crawl into bed with you wrapped around me."

He is quiet for so long that she opens her eyes to make certain he's still there. She sees him staring at her intently, concern still etched on his beautifully expressive face.

"I'm fine, Baby," she says. "Still in one piece and everything."

"Abbie…"

"Crane," she sighs, "I'm _good,_ all right. I don't want to talk about it right now, maybe not ever. I don't know yet, okay?" She stares up at him, her face defiant and stony, but Crane sees what she's trying to hide from him. She is asking for help with her eyes, even if not with her mouth.

"I died inside a thousand times this evening, Abigail," he whispers, his eyes haunted as he looks forlornly at her. "The thought of something bad happening to you… I _should_ have accompanied you to the station to retrieve your phone. I _cannot_ forgive myself."

"No. You are _not_ taking the blame for what crazy-ass Luke did. I won't let you."

"But, had I been with you…"

"Had you been with me, you might have wound up dead. We both might have. Luke was armed, Crane. He could have shot you to get you out of the way. He _would_ have shot you to get you out of the way." She starts to crack, the hoarseness in her voice giving her away.

He sighs and drops his head, staring down at the closed cover of the iPad in his lap. "Perhaps."

"No 'perhaps.' He's lost his sense, but he's not stupid. He's been planning this, Ichabod, he had to have been. You think he _didn't_ have a contingency plan for the possibility that you'd be with me?"

"He might not have acted had I been with you."

"Yeah, and then he would have tried again. Contrary to what everyone thinks, you and I are not attached at the hip," she chuckles. "Probably why he likes to hang around outside the ladies' room."

"This is hardly the time to be flippant," he says.

Abbie closes her eyes. "If I stop being _flippant,_ I'll start crying," she admits. "I do not want to cry. I don't want _him_ to have made me cry. He doesn't deserve my tears."

"Abbie, you can cry," Crane says softly, kneeling down on the floor beside the tub. "It will not give Morales any power. It does not make you weak. You know this, Love. You can let it go."

She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and fat tears slowly start to fall. Crane leans over the tub and she drops her head on his shoulder, her wet hand coming up to clutch the other one.

Crane allows her to weep on his shoulder, kneeling on the floor until his knees ache, until he cannot feel his lower legs at all. No matter. He will stay there as long as she needs him.

She sniffles, swipes at her face, and leans back. "You're all wet," she says, half laughing at him.

"I will dry," he shrugs, reaching up to wipe her tears with his thumbs. Then, he leans over and kisses her softly.

"Your knees are probably killing you," she says.

"Yes," he admits, and she releases him. He returns to his seat. "Abbie, there was something I do not understand."

"Hmm?"

"What was Detective Morales doing to your leg?"

Abbie bends her knee, bringing her thigh out of the water. She runs her fingers beside the cut there, staring at it. Crane's eyes move from the small cut to the marks left on her wrists by the thick plastic ties, and he squeezes his eyes shut, not wishing to see them.

"He was going to carve his initials into me. So it would leave a permanent scar," she says. She looks up at him with a small frown, dropping her leg back into the water. She is small enough to stretch her legs out flat in front of her in the tub.

"That is ghastly!" Crane exclaims, balling his hands into fists, horrified that someone would even dream up such a disgusting idea. Angry that it almost happened to Abbie. "That a person would be so sick, so… _twisted_ to permanently mar another human being, _especially_ one he professes to love, is just… _vile._ "

"Easy, there, Baby… he only got one cut in. You and Irving came at just the right time, thankfully. My heroes. Especially you."

"What makes my efforts any more heroic than the captain's?"

"Because that's how I want it to be," she says, smiling weakly at him. "Is it wrong for a woman to want to have a knight in shining armor? Because you've been mine countless times now."

Crane manages a smile. "Do not forget you have also saved my life on numerous occasions. Not to mention all you've done for me that does not involve life-threatening situations…"

"Right back at you," she says. She doesn't need to elaborate on how he's helped her at home. _He knows. He's just demonstrated it yet again._

He grants her another sad smile. She can still see the worry on his face, the remnants of fear behind his eyes. Things that the casual observer would not notice, but are clear as day to Abbie.

She closes her eyes and sighs. "I'll be fine, Ichabod. Luke didn't do any permanent harm. In fact, I probably did more damage to him."

"Yes, what was it you did, exactly?"

"Oh. He kissed me and grabbed my boob. Then, he stuck his tongue in my mouth and I bit it."

"Oh, dear," he says.

"It was kind of gross."

"Indeed. We heard him cry out. I had been wondering what you managed to do," he says.

"Hands and feet were bound. Teeth were not," she says.

"Abbie, there is something you should know," Crane says, running his hand through his hair. He reaches back and pulls the tie holding his hair back and drops it on the counter. Then, he runs both hands through, scratching his scalp thoughtfully.

Stalling.

"Crane," she prompts.

He sighs. "That table behind you…"

"Yes?" she asks, wary.

"Morales had more chloroform there. There was a bottle and I caught a glimpse of the label. There was also a single red rose and a condom."

Abbie makes a disgusted face. "What? Oh, my God…"

"I am sorry, Treasure, but it does, in fact, appear that Captain Irving and I arrived just in time."

"That sick fuck," she curses, pulling her knees up and hugging them to her chest.

"Indeed," he agrees.

"Water's getting cold. I want to get out," she sighs. "You never did your research," she adds when he sets the iPad on the bathroom counter, well away from the tub, to help her out.

"Research will wait," he says. She starts to shakily stand, and he bends down and lifts her from the tub. He sets her gently on her feet, wraps her in a large, soft towel and pulls her into his embrace. He holds her for a few seconds, then releases her to help her dry and dress before she catches a chill.

Crane's not very tired, so he figures he'll read while Abbie sleeps. He lifts her robe onto her shoulders, studying her beautiful face. He marvels at the strength found within her tiny frame, willing from his brain the horrible image of his Abbie bleeding, crying in pain, and strapped to a chair. Another image he wishes he could erase, along with the sound of her scream. He shudders at the memory of that horrifying sound. _Concentrate on the positive. She's mostly unscathed, alive, and here with me._ He suddenly wraps his arms around her, hunching down to press his face into her neck. Abbie's arms circle his shoulders, one hand coming up to hold his head.

xXx

Crane sits up in bed with the iPad, Abbie curled up against his leg.

"Thank you for coming to get me," she says.

"You are most welcome. I could not have gotten to you without Captain Irving's assistance, however."

"I'll thank him tomorrow," she says, her voice heavy with sleep. "And you would have found a way. You're a pretty resourceful guy," she adds, nestling deeper into the covers, making sure she's still touching him as much as possible.

He reaches down and caresses her cheek. She turns her head and kisses his hand. "I love you so much, Ichabod," she whispers. "So much it scares me sometimes."

"I love you, too, Abbie. You are everything to me. And I will _always_ come to get you," he whispers back, bending down to kiss her. She lifts up to meet him, kissing him sweetly before settling back down. "Sleep now, Love. I will turn the light off if it disturbs you."

"It's fine," she says. She snuggles against him a final time, fully settling in, and drifts to sleep immediately.

After two minutes of trying to concentrate on his reading, Crane gives up and sets the iPad aside. He scoots down beneath the covers and gathers his sleeping Lieutenant into his arms, holding her as close as he is able. He doesn't care that it's only just past nine, he's wide awake, and likely won't fall asleep for another two hours.

She's home.

Safe in his arms.


	17. Chapter 17

"You found _what,_ exactly?" Abbie asks, two days later, sipping a cappuccino in the privacy of Irving's office. Crane sits beside her with his hazelnut latte and a bag of doughnut holes, the latter of which he holds across the small space between them, offering them to her. She automatically plucks one out and takes a bite.

Irving sighs and pushes a manila folder across the desk. Abbie finishes the donut hole and brushes the crumbs off her fingers. She sets her cup on the desk and picks up the folder.

It is full of pictures of the inside of Luke Morales' apartment. Pictures she immediately wishes she hadn't asked to see. Pictures she almost doesn't want to show Crane, knowing they'll be indelibly burned into his memory.

Crane sets his breakfast down, leans over, and looks. "Dear God," he breathes.

The walls of his spare bedroom are covered in photos. Abbie and Crane walking into the library. Into the station. Starbuck's. Subway.

Their home. Photos of Abbie and Crane _inside_ their home, taken through the windows.

In most of the pictures, Crane's face is blacked out with a Sharpie. In some of the pictures, the ones where Abbie and Crane are shown being affectionate with one another, a photo of Luke's face has been pasted over Crane's.

Abbie shudders. "I am closing _all_ the drapes when we get home," she says. Crane looks at her, knowing her remark is a sign that her defenses are up. _If I stop being flippant, I'll start crying_ , she had said. He puts his arm around her shoulders, giving a small squeeze. She leans her head against him for a moment.

"This is quite disturbing, Captain," Crane says. He gently takes the photos and folder from Abbie and passes them back to Irving. _She does not need to dwell on these. Neither do I._

"There's more. His computer contained some, um, evidence that was… well, I think I'll just go with 'incriminating' and leave it at that," he says evasively.

"Captain," Abbie says, "what did you find?" she asks levelly. "I need to know."

 _Of course you do._ "He had a journal. He'd been planning this. The kidnapping. It was all very detailed and clearly premeditated," he says.

Abbie nods, saying nothing. "Pretty sloppy for a police detective," she finally says, still keeping her emotions packed inside.

"Mills, did you see what was on that table behind you?" Irving asks, his voice low.

"I informed her, Captain," Crane says while Abbie nods.

"Twisted ass," Abbie says, wrapping her arms around herself.

Irving sighs heavily. "He was planning to kill you. He was going to sexually assault you… then, he was going to kill you. It was all there in his computer journal."

The resulting silence hangs heavily in the air as Abbie stares at Irving. _Through_ Irving. Unable to hold her gaze, the captain glances at Crane, at a loss.

"Abbie…" Crane says softly, taking her hand.

"I'm _fine,_ Crane," she says, a little too harshly.

The room is silent again for ten long seconds.

"Mills, it's okay if you're not fine," Irving says quietly.

Crane kisses her hand and the invisible walls around Abbie crumble a little. She drops her head.

"'If I can't have her, no one can.' That's what he was saying when you knocked him out," Abbie says softly, looking up at Crane, her eyes wide.

"I know, Love. Which is precisely why I chose that moment to render him unconscious," he replies. He notices her hand is trembling, and holds it between both of his hands, lifting it to his lips to kiss again, pressing his cheek against it.

"Um, you were next on the list, Crane. He never would have gotten that far, but his intentions were pretty clear," Irving says, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably.

"Why not kill me first? I was in his way, after all," Crane wonders. Abbie gives him a shocked look.

"Because he wanted you gone, but wanted you to suffer more. He wanted you to know what he did to Abbie _before_ he killed you," Irving says darkly, suddenly wishing he wasn't so good at his job, wishing he didn't understand the criminal mind well enough to be able to explain this so readily.

Crane stares, blinking, processing this information. "I see. Perverse, but I understand the demented logic behind such a thought process," he says. His voice sounds odd; detached.

Abbie makes a strange hiccuping sound, and both men turn to look at her. "As if we didn't have enough to worry about with demons and the end of the world. It almost seems silly, falling apart over a _mortal_ threat," Abbie says, a watery laugh escaping her lips, and the two men see there are silent tears rolling down her face.

 _Sod propriety._ Crane pulls her into his lap, enfolding her in his arms, and her head drops onto his shoulder. Irving tactfully picks up a different file and at least pretends to read it. After a minute, he stands and leaves them alone in his office, closing the door behind him.

Crane kisses Abbie's forehead, stroking her hair and back while she falls apart, trembling and weeping quietly into his shoulder. Occasionally, he hears her breath hitch with a small sob. Each sob feels like a small stab to his heart, but he knows she needs this release. He also knows he cannot erase what happened two days ago. He _can_ make sure she knows she is safe and much loved. By him.

"Abbie," he says softly, "you're alive and whole. Safe. He cannot get to you or hurt you anymore."

She squeezes him. "I know," she whispers. She lifts her head from his shoulder and looks at him. "I'm just so…" she furrows her brow, "…overwhelmed. I'm scared, disgusted, and… _angry._ He had no right… _no_ right." She shakes her head sternly.

"No, he did not. And he will never do it again. To anyone," Crane says, stroking her cheek.

"And the fact he was going to come after you next…" Her voices breaks and she shudders as the unthinkable invades her thoughts.

"Shh," he soothes, kissing her lips once before resting his forehead against hers. "Which proves how clouded his judgment had become. If he truly wanted to hurt me, to punish me, he would have known to leave me alive without you. Death would have been preferable to a world without you in it, Treasure."

Abbie smiles a small smile, then tilts her head to press her lips to his. "Thank you," she whispers. The sentiment hits her square in the heart. _Crane knows what death is. He's walked that path already, and to say he'd rather go back there than to be without me…_

Crane blinks, puzzled. "You are welcome, but why are you thanking me?"

"For being you. For being so… just _you._ You, Ichabod Crane, are what I need. Especially now."

He smiles, nodding slightly. "I can think of something else we need," he says.

"Crane, this is hardly the time…" Abbie says, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

"What? Oh! No, not that," he says, chuckling. "I still have not quite gotten the knack for innuendo and double entendre, have I?"

"No, but I love that you haven't," Abbie says, kissing him. "You were saying?"

"I think we need to get married, Abigail," he says, turning serious again. "As soon as possible."

Abbie stares at him, looking into the soft blue of his eyes. She brushes the long waves of hair from his face and kisses his forehead. _This rattled him more than the hellhound._ She understands his thinking, understands his need to bind them together legally, to be one in every way possible. She feels the same need.

There is a polite knock on the door and Irving pokes his head back in. "We okay?" he asks.

Abbie stands, immediately missing the warmth of Crane's lap, his body pressed against hers. "Yeah, thanks," she says, suddenly embarrassed.

"Mills, don't worry about it. You held it together better than most, um…"

"Victims," Abbie supplies grimly.

"Yeah. Those. Anyway, I wanted to tell you that Morales' lawyer has advised him to plead guilty because of the overwhelming evidence. So, you won't have to go through a big trial while trying to stop demons." Irving's eyes move to Crane, who is now standing beside Abbie. "Or do you still think he needs treatment, not incarceration?"

"I believe the appropriate phrase here would be 'That ship has sailed,' Captain," Crane replies.

"Yeah. Thought so. Go home and rest another day. You need and deserve it. I'll call if anything weird comes up," Irving says.

"Captain, there's one thing I'm wondering if you'll help us with," Abbie says.

"What's that?" Irving asks, intrigued.

"We need a witness. Lower case 'w' witness," she says, taking Crane's hand. "And I need Jenny, too. Crane and I want to get married. This afternoon." Abbie looks at Crane and her face softens when she sees a smile tug at his lips and feels his grip tighten on her hand.

xXx

The wedding was small, fast, and held in the courthouse across the street from the station. Judge Marie Evans presided over the ceremony. Captain Frank Irving and Jenny Mills were the only witnesses.

Jenny turned up with a pair of gold rings, pressed into Abbie's hand with a "Don't ask" and a wink.

Abbie accepted the gift, and made a mental note to definitely ask later.

It is over in ten minutes. Abbie realizes she doesn't care that she didn't have a big church wedding. She doesn't care that all her friends and family (admittedly, a small number) weren't there, especially considering Crane would have no one to sit on the groom's side. She doesn't care that she got married in jeans and a purple sweater with rings that were likely stolen.

She's married to the man she loves. It's all that matters.

"Well, Mrs. Crane, shall we return home?" Crane asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Oh, I think I'm going to keep my name," Abbie says.

"Beg pardon?"

Jenny sees a glint in Abbie's eyes that Crane misses, and steps forward. "Oh, yeah. It's fairly common now for a woman to keep her maiden name after she's married," she volunteers. "Or hyphenates, using both. Mills-Crane."

"Hmm," Crane frowns, trying to process this information. _I don't like it, but if it's important to Abbie…_

"Baby, I'm messing with you," Abbie says, her face breaking into a smile while Jenny laughs behind her. "I know it must be important to you. Plus, I want to be Abigail Crane."

Crane presses his lips together, fighting back his smile. "You are not funny," he says, but starts chuckling. He pulls Abbie into his arms and kisses her forehead.

"I can take Jenny back to TPI," Irving says. "You guys go home and, um, rest. Or whatever."

Jenny laughs harder now. "One second," she tells Irving. She marches up to Crane and places her hands on her hips as she looks up at him. "Two things, British guy: One, thank you for saving my sister from that idiot. He's lucky I didn't get to him before you and Irving."

"Indeed," Crane says, nodding seriously. He's not _quite_ certain of the skills Jenny Mills possesses, but he _is_ fairly certain he would never like to be on the receiving end of said skills.

"And, two, if you hurt my sister, I _will_ kick your skinny British ass. Abbie and I may have our problems, but she's still my sister."

Crane glances over Jenny's shoulder and sees a very shocked-looking Abbie. "Understood, Miss Jenny. I promise you have no need to worry. My life is devoted to two endeavors: being a loving and devoted husband to Abbie and averting the apocalypse. Please note which of those two items I listed first."

Jenny peers at him. "Hmm. Somehow I think saving the world is actually the more important of the two, but I appreciate the effort," she says. "Now, I gotta get back before they decide to clean my room and find my stash of hand grenades," she casually adds before pulling a befuddled Crane in for a quick hug.

 _Surely that was a jest,_ he thinks, looking over at Irving for help. Irving shrugs.

Jenny turns to Abbie. "I'm actually happy for you," she says, hugging her sister tightly, but quickly. "You still coming Saturday? I understand if you're gonna be… busy."

"I'm still coming Saturday," Abbie says, ignoring her innuendo. "Thanks for being here."

"Thanks for springing me for a few," Jenny answers, walking towards a now impatient-looking Irving.

"Hey, Jenny," Abbie calls after her, "don't think I'm _not_ going to ask about these rings."

"Yeah, and don't think I _am_ going to answer!" Jenny yells back, laughing.

Abbie shakes her head and looks at Crane. "Let's go home, Baby."

"Yes," he says, taking her hand. "Shall we get Chinese food for dinner? I would very much like to try a few more items," he says.

"Later," she says, twining her fingers with his, a mischievous smile spreading across her face.

He looks down at her, a little surprised. "Abbie, are you sure? If you rather wait, I understand. We have already had our 'wedding night' several times over, so…"

Abbie silences him by placing her hands on his chest, her small fingers curling into his shirt. It's the dark blue one, one of the first pieces of modern clothing they bought. _Still my favorite shirt._ It feels as though that shopping trip was a lifetime ago. "Ichabod, what I need right now is for you to take me home and make me completely yours again," she says softly, lifting up on tiptoe to kiss him.

xXx

"What does your fortune say?" Abbie asks, leaning over on the sofa to read the small slip of paper pinched between Crane's long, nimble fingers.

He moves the fortune so she can't see it. "It says, 'Your wife is an insatiable, wanton creature and you are a very lucky man. Lucky numbers 2, 14, 17, 29, 87.'"

"It does not!" Abbie exclaims, reaching for it. Crane holds it out to the side, away from her.

"Fair enough. The last number was 97, not 87," he says, struggling to keep a straight face.

She huffs in exasperation and climbs over him, snatching the fortune from his hand. He pretends not to enjoy her small body clambering over him, her breasts in his face.

"'You will have a pleasant surprise,'" Abbie reads. "Bor-ing," she sings, dropping it on the table.

"I did not think it boring. It did say 'pleasant' surprise, after all," Crane says. "What prophecy did your cookie hold?"

Abbie cracks open her cookie, reads, and sighs. "'Hold on to the past, but eventually let the times go and keep the memories into the present.'" She looks up at him.

"The grammar is terrible, but…"

"I know. I hate it when these things are right," she says, flicking the paper to the coffee table beside his. "It's less creepy when they just say, 'You will embark on a successful business venture,' or 'You have a deep appreciation for the arts and music.'"

"How often are messages inside cookies correct, exactly?" Crane asks, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

"Not often, but enough that I've noticed," she says. "Come on, let's clean this up."

Crane stands, helps collect the takeout boxes, and follows Abbie to the kitchen. He realizes how comfortable he's become with such concepts like food delivered to one's home and readily-available cuisine from the other side of the planet. _Though I somehow suspect these fortune cookies are not actually found in China._

"You know, there is kind of a fun game we used to play in college with fortune cookie messages," Abbie says after they've put away the leftovers and disposed of the trash.

She leans against the kitchen counter, her slender brown leg peeking out from the split in her bathrobe, the only garment she's wearing at the moment. She's smirking at him.

"Oh?" Crane raises an eyebrow at her.

"It's stupid, but kind of fun. You read the fortune and add the words, 'in bed' to the end."

"So… 'You will have a pleasant surprise… in bed,'" he says, slowly stalking towards her.

"Exactly," Abbie whispers, leaning into him as he pulls her against his body, clad in a gray t-shirt and his Superman pants. "Follow me," she says.

xXx

They had spent the hours before dinner in the bedroom, indulging themselves in the luxury of one another. Crane did just as Abbie asked, taking great care with her, thoroughly and lovingly making her his own, worshipping every inch of her petite, luscious body with his.

Abbie had never felt so loved. So _adored._ He seemed to exist only for her, to erase all the bad with his overwhelming _good._

She didn't know what to expect from "married sex," but it certainly _wasn't_ multiple orgasms. She'd never even _had_ multiple orgasms before.

After, she lay sprawled across his chest, tired but unbelievably happy. "That's never happened to me before," she confessed, kissing the hollow of his throat.

"What has never happened, my love?" he asked, his fingers dragging idly up and down her back.

"I think I came three times," she said. "Twice, definitely. The third one was kind of small, but I think…"

Crane chuckled, wrapping his arms tightly around her. "Well, then, I shall have a goal for which to strive next time," he said.

Abbie lifted her head. As she stared down at his handsome face, this face she knows so well, the force of her love for him swept over her like a wave. _That's why. I am truly, fully his and he is truly, fully mine._

Now, empty bellies pleasantly filled with Chinese food and the promise of a pleasant surprise in bed hanging in the air, Abbie leads Crane back to the bedroom, where she intends for them to stay the rest of the night.

"Lie down, Baby," Abbie says, gently pushing him down on the bed.

"My pleasure, Lieutenant," Crane purrs back, complying, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

"Oh, you have no idea," she mutters, grinning back and climbing onto the bed, straddling his thighs.

"Abigail, my heart, you look positively predatory," he rumbles. "What plans are brewing inside that wonderful brain of yours?"

"Something I've been wanting to show you since you got your clean bill of health, actually. You'll see," she says, pulling his t-shirt up. He sits up slightly, allowing her to pull it off over his head. She slides her tongue into his mouth while she slides her hands inside his pants, pushing the soft material down his hips.

They work his pajama pants off, then he tugs the belt of her robe open, never breaking contact with her lush lips, kissing her deeply. He pushes her robe from her shoulders and runs his hands down her back to her rear, his calloused palms creating friction that raises goosebumps on her skin.

Abbie moans and pushes him back down onto the bed. He starts to pull her higher and lifts his head, attempting to kiss her breasts, but she resists.

"You just relax, Baby," she whispers, pressing his broad rectangular forehead gently with her index finger until he drops it back on the pillows with a groan.

She gazes down at him a moment, her fingers caressing his cheeks through his beard, the soft-rough texture tickling her fingertips. She kisses his lips once, then moves lower, kissing down his neck, lightly sucking at his Adam's apple, licking the hollow of his throat, tasting the now-familiar flavor of his skin.

He groans again, his fingers stilling on her skin as he allows himself to enjoy her attentions. "Abbie…" he whispers.

Abbie hums against his skin, enjoying herself, sliding her tongue down his sternum. Her fingers play through his chest hair, thumbs flicking his nipples a few times. She kisses his scar lovingly, then moves lower, down the flat plane of his stomach.

"Abbie…" he repeats, his voice edged with slight trepidation now. "I know we are married, but…"

"Trust me, Ichabod," she says softly, moving lower still, kissing the lines of his hipbones as she reaches her target. "Nothing forbidden here," she reassures him, keeping her voice soft while in her head she's willing him not to freak out by repeating the mantra _Don't freak out, don't freak out, don't freak out._

"Are you… oh…" his query turns into a groan when she grasps his manhood gently and kisses it. She kisses it again, then flicks her tongue across the tip. He inhales sharply, hissing between his teeth.

"Miss Mills!" he gasps as her lips close over his shaft, drawing him into the warm wetness of her mouth, sliding her tongue around, sucking him in again and again.

Abbie lifts her head. "Mrs. Crane," she corrects, grins, flips her hair to the side, and returns her lips to his shaft.

"But… oh… I… ohhhh…" He groans, long and low, his body finally relaxing as he gives up his feeble protests.

 _I have never really enjoyed this very much, but it is different with him,_ she realizes, twirling her tongue around the tip as she slyly slips her hand between his thighs to cup him with her other hand.

He grunts wordlessly in response, and Abbie squeezes gently. She plunges him into her mouth again, deeply, over and over, until Crane suddenly cries out.

"Stop, Abbie, please! I… I cannot allow you to…" he gasps, and Abbie acquiesces, releasing him gently. _Pushed him far enough._ She smiles up at him and crawls over his body, dropping occasional kisses as she goes.

"It would be… most disrespectful to allow myself to release into your mouth," he mutters softly between kisses.

"Most guys like it," she answers.

Crane rolls them, looming over her now. "I am not," he kisses her hungrily, " _most guys._ "

"Mmm, and I'm glad you're not," she answers, sliding her leg against his hip.

"Good," he grunts, placing sucking kisses on her neck, his hand caressing her breast, taking charge.

He closes his lips over her erect nipple, sliding his tongue around and across it, suckling lovingly.

Then, he stops, releasing her breast with a soft _pop._ "Would you… like me to… do that to you?" he asks hesitantly, the thought having just occurred to him.

 _Yes, please._ "Only if you want to," Abbie answers, trying not to sound too eager. She knows such things were taboo, forbidden actually, during his time (she looked it up one night, hoping he wouldn't ask what she was reading). But, she also knows what he's capable of doing with that tongue of his. _The mind boggles._ "I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

He kisses her lips tenderly. "Not forbidden?" he confirms.

"Not at all," she says, smiling. "As long as it's consensual, anything goes these days. And I _definitely_ consent."

Crane blinks, trying to process that information. "Anything…?" He shakes his head. "Too much to process right now," he declares. He kisses her again. "Forgive me if I do not please you," he says tenderly, beginning his journey south.

"Mmm, you will," she says. "I have confidence in you."

"Thank you," he mutters from between her breasts.

"Um… you know all those amazing things you do with your fingers?"

"Mmm-hmm," he answers, dipping his tongue into her belly button.

She giggles. "Do the same things with your tongue, and you'll be just fine," she says.

He raises his head. "I shall endeavor to do my best," he says, then presses a kiss to her hipbone, scooting lower.

Abbie parts her legs further for him and gasps when she feels his beard against the apex of her thighs. Then, his tongue tentatively slips out. Tasting.

"Mmm," he murmurs pleasantly, circling that spot with which he has become very well acquainted.

"Oh…" Abbie moans, and he circles again. She grips the blankets in her fists and he flicks her swollen bud with his tongue. "Mmm…"

"Mmm…" he echoes her moan with his own, clearly enjoying himself. His tongue explores, tasting her. Every gasp, moan, and squirm encourages him, inflames him. He moves lower, thrusting his tongue inside, as deep as he can go, slipping it in and out a few times experimentally.

"Ichabod…" she mews his name. He glances up to see her hands kneading her breasts as he pleasures her. The sight almost makes him release onto the sheets, so he closes his eyes and resumes, circling his tongue around her sensitive nub again. Inspired, he decides to slide two fingers into her, moving them in and out as he suckles her at the top of her folds.

"Oh, God… Baby… oh… oh, yes!" Abbie cries out, and Crane feels her climax against his face and fingers. He relishes it, soaking in her quivering limbs and warm, wet, pulsing flesh.

He withdraws his fingers, kisses her uninjured inner thigh, and prowls up over her body. He ponders his fingers, slick with her moisture, then sucks the wetness from them.

"That was most enjoyable," he murmurs against her neck.

"Yeah, it was," Abbie says, her breathing almost back to normal. "Damn," she adds. "You sure you've never done that before?"

"I have absolutely not ever done that before, Wife," he says, grinning a moment before kissing her lips.

His beard is damp and she can taste herself on his lips, but she doesn't care, kissing him with abandon as he drops his hips between her thighs and eases himself into her.

"Well, you're… oh… a natural at it, Husband," she answers, wrapping her legs around his waist as he thrusts into her with long, languid strokes.

Crane kisses her lips, her neck, her ears. His hand finds a breast, his thumb teasing a nipple as he balances his weight on his other arm.

Abbie moans his name, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she abandons herself to him, giving over to sensation.

"I love you, Abbie," Crane whispers into her ear, his lips brushing the sensitive shell, his beard tickling.

A shudder runs through her from ear to groin, and when he sucks her earlobe into his mouth, she cries out, her legs tightening around him as she reaches another climax. The fullness of him inside her and the closeness of his body against hers makes this one more intense than the first.

"Oh, Baby, I love you," she gasps, her fingers in his hair now. "I love you…" she repeats, whispering.

He increases his efforts, thrusting faster, harder, _deeper_ , until his groans join her gasps and they shatter together, all movement stilling for the eternity of a perfect moment.

Crane collapses carefully over Abbie and rolls them, withdrawing from her in the process. He kisses her softly, moving a stray tendril of hair from her face.

No words are needed. He reaches down and pulls the rumpled blankets over them, smoothing them over her hip and pulling her tighter against his side in one graceful maneuver. Abbie sighs contentedly, kissing his shoulder, hugging him with her arm around his torso and her leg draped over his.

It's grown dark outside again, but neither Abbie nor Crane bothers to look at the clock to check the time. It's night and they're exhausted.

They drift off to a blissful sleep, both knowing that he is hers and she is his. Neither demon nor human can separate them. Ever.


	18. Epilogue

Six and a half years later.

They'd fought all manner of demon, horseman, wraith, ghoul, imp, banshee, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Just when they thought Moloch had exhausted his toolbox of devilry, he'd unleash some other gruesome thing meant to kill them, maim them, drive them insane, or drive them apart.

Jenny joined the fight sometime during Year Two. She and Abbie mended their rift. Jenny was released from the institution and had proven to be an invaluable ally to their cause with her resourcefulness and mostly-unflappable nature.

But now, in Year Seven, they're all waiting. The anticipation hangs heavy over them like stormclouds. When will the End Times begin? How will they start?

They didn't start with the heavens opening up and raining fire from the sky. They didn't start with a great, booming voice crying, "Repent!" They didn't even start with a 12-foot-tall, hideous beast that stunk of brimstone and breathed fire.

They started with gargoyles.

Abbie had always rather liked gargoyles. She had always thought they had a certain charm, a certain cleverness of purpose. Had found them to be somewhat whimsical and enjoyed seeing them stuck on the corners of buildings like silent sentinels.

Had.

 _Moving_ gargoyles tearing around town turned out to be a different matter altogether. _Moving_ gargoyles, with glowing red eyes and fierce teeth, leaping from rooftops to wreak havoc on the town, effectively killed any affection Lieutenant Abbie Crane held for them.

Especially because, despite being ambulatory and surprisingly spry, they still were made of _stone._

It's been a hell of a week. It's late July, hotter than blazes, halfway through Year Seven, yet Crane and Abbie don't feel like they're any closer to the end of this nightmare, even though they know they must be. It's _Year Seven_. Abbie's stress level is pretty high. And when Abbie's stress level is high, so is Crane's.

Thankfully, their cozy home had become even more of a sanctuary for them as their battle waged on. It's located far enough away from the forest (a very deliberate choice on Abbie's part) and the center of town to be away from most of the fracas. Apparently, Moloch and the Horseman do not know where it is, either, which is _very_ good. So, when they are home, Crane and Abbie sequester themselves from the world, staying in their safe haven, lost in one another.

Luckily, they've found a _quite_ effective method of stress relief. It turns out there's nothing better after a day of chasing down demons than a good, old-fashioned tumble between the sheets.

It's actually one of the things that has kept their marriage so strong. Not a day passes where Abbie doesn't take a few moments to say a silent prayer of thanks that their union has remained solid throughout these trials.

Instead of being torn apart by the stress and pressure, they've grown closer than ever. Anticipating one another's actions in the heat of a fight. Communicating silently and effectively when making any noise would be catastrophic. Knowing when a hug is needed. Knowing when space is needed.

"Something has to happen soon," Abbie says, eyes dancing across her computer screen, looking for key words to help them defeat the gargoyles. Key words like _weakness_ and _vanquish._ "The anticipation is really starting to get under my skin."

"Patience is not a quality with which you've been overly gifted, my love," Crane comments mildly from across the desk, his own eyes scanning a page of a Latin text, translating as he goes. Occasionally, his attention turns to General Washington's bible, also open in front of him, as though he is cross-referencing the texts.

"And knowing when to be less than brutally honest is not a quality with which _you've_ been overly gifted," she shoots back, smirking.

He looks up, feigning hurt. "You would have me _lie_ to you?" he gasps in mock horror, grabbing his chest.

"Shut up," she laughs. "Find anything?"

"I think so… wait…" he says, his eyes alight. Abbie watches him, knowing he's found something significant. She recognizes all the signs: shallow breathing, twinkling eyes, fingers flexing. _Like a kid on Christmas morning._

She watches, waiting, until he taps the bible decisively with his finger. "Yes. _Yes._ Moloch, we have you." He looks up at Abbie. "Boo-yah?"

Abbie bursts out laughing. After seven years in the 21st century, Crane has made huge strides in acclimating himself. His old frock coat is still around, but mostly stays in the hall closet, along with his old boots (which Abbie actually likes more than she'll admit). He's got his own, latest edition "smart-phone" and is a pro at navigating it. He's been playing Words With Friends with Abbie for years (almost always winning), and often expresses his pleasure in the fact that the game has not been discontinued. And when he chides Abbie for her lack of patience, it only reminds her of how he wound up deleting Candy Crush in a fit of pique when he could not get past level 147. Crane, long ago, also acquired his own email account, iPad, and has even mastered using the DVR.

Language, it seems, continues to elude him. Abbie suspects this is intentional considering his incredible gift for languages. However, he occasionally tries out a "modern" turn of phrase, almost always correctly and almost always resulting in Abbie laughing her butt off.

Abbie suspects this is also intentional. Shortly after they were married, Crane once told her he loved the sound of her laughter and wished he could hear it more often.

"Depends," Abbie says, recovering. "How certain are you that we've got him by the short and curlies?"

"The short and what? Wait, never mind," he says, holding up his hands, piecing together what she means. "Yech," he shudders. "The imagery you've just conjured is _most_ vile."

"I know," she says, laughing. "So, whatcha got there, Baby?"

xXx

Much later, under the silver light of a bright, predictably full moon, Crane and Abbie lead the gargoyles back to the forest with the help of Jenny and Irving. Abbie had a breakthrough of her own that afternoon: the gargoyles are afraid of fire. They managed to dig up a couple of flamethrowers (Irving called in another favor from one of his seemingly-endless network of "friends") and herded the creepy stone critters back to the forest (to the spot with those four unnaturally white trees), where they intended to send them back to their place of origin.

It worked. However, before the portal closed, Moloch seized the opportunity to burst through, invading the world of the living.

"The gargoyles were a ruse. A… device," Crane whispers. "He knew we would open the portal to send them back, therefore providing him an opportunity…"

"Shit," Abbie curses. "Now or never, Babe," she says, taking Crane's hand.

"Right." He quickly withdraws a small 2-way radio from his coat pocket. "Miss Jenny, bring the items. Now."

"Fucker came through the portal, didn't he?" Jenny's voice answers through the speaker. "Be right there."

"Take care."

"Shut up and stay alive."

Crane drops the device back into his pocket.

"IT IS TIME." Moloch's otherworldly voice fills the atmosphere, vibrating through their bodies. He is not speaking English, yet they understand him perfectly. "THE END IS AT HAND."

"This is unsettling," Abbie mutters.

"Indeed," Crane answers, knowing she's referring to the voice speaking in a strange tongue they can understand, not the actual message. "Pray Miss Jenny is swift."

"Stall… stall…" Abbie says between gritted teeth. "Moloch!" she calls out, causing Crane's head to snap in her direction, surprised. "I suggest we negotiate. What are your demands?"

"I DEMAND YOUR SOULS."

"Of course he wants those," Abbie mutters under her breath, but she stands her ground. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Jenny behind a tree with a black velvet bag. "Go," she whispers to Crane. He darts to Jenny's location. "What will…" _Think quickly, Abbie._ "…appease you, O Moloch?"

Crane returns to her side, muttering, "'O Moloch?'" under his breath, incredulous. _Laying it on a trifle thick…_

Moloch pulls himself up to his full, terrifying height, well over eight feet. His horns stretch out from his head, shiny and black and fiercely sharp, glinting in the light of the full moon. "SACRIFICE. I REQUIRE THE SOUL OF AN INNOCENT."

Abbie lifts her chin a fraction of an inch, glancing at Crane. He motions with his eyes, looking from Moloch to a spot about six feet in front of them. _He needs to come closer._

"The soul of an innocent? So, a virgin?"

"A CHILD. UNTOUCHED AND FREE OF SIN. PURE." Moloch fixes her with his steely black, challenging gaze.

Abbie hesitates a moment, pondering his demand. Then, she takes a step. _Toward_ Moloch. "Very well," she says, her voice shaking somewhat.

"YOU ARE NO CHILD."

"I am _with_ child," Abbie says. She takes a deep breath, wringing her hands in front of her. "It is yours."

"LIAR! YOU DO NOT HAVE THE CAPACITY TO GIVE AWAY THE FLESH OF YOUR FLESH."

"You have _no idea_ of what I am capable," she answers defiantly, squaring her shoulders. "You had me once, but that was a long time ago. I'm not the scared little girl I was then. The child I carry belongs to him," she waves her hand back towards Crane. "Now, it belongs to you."

"Abbie, no! Please, don't…" Crane's voice speaks behind her, thick with emotion.

"Crane," she snaps, turning her face towards his. "If it means stopping the apocalypse, _what choice do we have_? It's for the greater good. It's _one_ soul given to save millions. _Billions_." Her words are brave, but her voice wavers again. As Crane looks at her, he sees tears rolling down her cheeks, reflecting silver in the moonlight against her dark skin.

He sighs heavily and bows his head, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Do… do what you must. I… cannot bear witness to this…" Crane says, turning his back on them. He catches a glimpse of Jenny, still hiding by the big tree, now with Irving right behind her. They are both wide-eyed, mouths agape.

"I REQURE PROOF." Moloch takes a step forward. "SAY THE WORDS."

Abbie takes another deep breath. When she releases it, it is shaky, as though she is shivering from cold, yet the night is warm. She opens her mouth to speak, falters, then tries again. "Moloch… I p-promise to give you that which is… contained… in my womb." Her voice wobbles. Tears continue to roll unchecked down her face.

Moloch steps closer. Abbie holds her breath, praying. The demon extends a long talon towards her stomach, sensing for a presence in her womb. His fingers flex, opening wide, then relaxing again, rubbing the tips together thoughtfully. Anticipatory. "I ACCEPT THE CHILD OF THE TWO WITNESSES."

He withdraws his hand, and Abbie releases her breath. "Now," she whispers.

Crane immediately steps forward, Washington's bible in one hand, a large alabaster bowl in the other. Moloch startles and begins to lunge towards Crane, but he is quicker to act.

Jenny rolls the Horseman's skull towards them. It bumps to a stop against Crane's foot and Abbie immediately retrieves it. Crane defiantly holds the bowl aloft and loudly pronounces, "'And thou shalt not let any of thy seed pass through the fire to _Molech_ , neither shalt thou profane the name of thy God: I am the LORD.'" Abbie places the head in the bowl as Crane continues. "Moloch the King, I hereby banish you to the depths of hell from whence you came! Go, and take thy minions with thee, never to return!" Crane shouts, gripping the bowl tightly in one hand and holding it in front of him at arms' length. As he shouts, Abbie hurriedly opens a flask and pours holy water over the skull, which immediately starts smoking.

Moloch screams, an eerie, shrill, otherworldly sound that rips through them. Abbie covers her ears, flask still clutched in one hand. Crane nearly drops the bowl. The smoke from the Horseman's skull envelops the writhing, screeching demon, pulling him to the bowl. Crane hastily sets it on the ground and he and Abbie dash away, heading for Jenny and Irving, as Moloch is sucked, howling, into the bowl, long talons scrabbling at the earth as he tries to cling to this world.

They stand transfixed, bracing themselves as the ground opens up, swallowing the bowl, the head, Moloch, and the four white trees in a sucking vortex of blackness.

There is no sound. The silence is even more unsettling, having followed Moloch's ungodly roars.

As the air clears, the forest appears as it did before, minus the white trees, minus the bowl and skull. Minus the huge, white-skinned, horned demon.

Abbie, Crane, Irving, and Jenny stare at the space, stunned by its… _normalcy._

It's over.

They stopped it.

Abbie grabs Crane's hand, gripping it tightly lest her knees give way beneath her, her eyes wet again, this time with tears of shock and extreme relief. Crane, her beloved husband and fellow Witness, supports her automatically. Breathing heavily and pulling his wife with him, he leans against a tree, sagging into its strength. Irving releases a breath that sounds like it had been held for ten minutes.

"Holy shit," Jenny whispers, the first to step forward.

Abbie looks around, blinking. _The forest feels lighter. It has always harbored a creepy, oppressive presence. That is now gone._ She hears the hoot of an owl in the distance. The wind swirls through the leaves of the trees again. She marvels at the sense of peace gently filtering throughout the woods.

"Let's go," she says, starting to walk back to their car, the tension slowly easing its way out of her body. Crane immediately follows, tucking Washington's bible under his arm.

Jenny finds her feet and jogs to catch up, her senses now returning. "Abbie, what the hell? You promised that demon your _baby?_ I know it was a fake-out, but _still_. You didn't know it was going to work! And since when are you pregnant?" Jenny yells, grabbing Abbie's arm, effectively stopping her. Crane stops beside her. Irving is behind Jenny, watching with interest. His face suggests he has the same questions.

"And _you!_ " Jenny looks up at Crane now. "How could you just stand there and _let_ her? Do you remember the threat I made when you two got married? I should kick your ass right—"

"Jenny, I'm _not_ pregnant," Abbie interrupts, placing her hands on her sister's shoulders. "I promised him the contents of my womb, not an actual child."

Jenny furrows her brow and stares at Abbie's abdomen. "But… he used the Force or whatever, and said…"

"Yeah, there's something in there. My IUD." Jenny stares in stunned silence. "Can we go home now?" Abbie asks, smiling as she marches away, enjoying the rare occurrence of rendering her sister speechless.

"But, how did you know he would fall for it?" Jenny asks, jogging to catch up again.

"I didn't. I just hoped. Basically, we needed him to get close enough to use that bowl thing we found in Ichabod's tomb. So, it really didn't matter if he was fooled or not. It just made it easier to perform the banishment, because he wasn't all riled up," Abbie explains. "Nice bowling, by the way."

"Thanks," Jenny says, finally laughing. She runs a scarred hand through her hair, now a tousled, chin-length collection of curls. Two years ago, during a narrow escape from a tomb, her braid got caught in a stone doorway. Jenny chopped it off and has kept her hair short ever since.

"So, she's not pregnant, then?" Irving asks Crane, now walking behind the two women.

"No, she's not. We actually planned the entire sequence, down to the wavering voice and my rather weak-willed acquiescence," Crane answers. "I must say the tears were unexpected, my love," he calls ahead to Abbie.

"Yeah, they were for me, too," she turns back and says. "But effective, you have to admit."

"Jenny and I sure bought it," Irving admits. "But, I was wondering why you didn't fight harder," he says, now chuckling a little.

"Yes, well, we all must play our part. I am only thankful the ruse worked. Seeing Abbie willingly move so close to that demon…" he trails off, shaking his head. "I never cease to be amazed at her bravery, even after all these years and all we've experienced."

"She's something, all right." They climb into Irving's car, parked by the side of the road. "Hey, what was up with that 'Moloch the King' stuff?" Irving asks.

"That is his Name," Crane explains.

"And?" Irving asks.

"Oh, right," Jenny pipes up from the back seat, where she and Abbie are seated. Irving starts the car and heads back to the station. "If you know a demon's Name - capital 'N' - you have power over the demon."

"And a capital 'W' Witness with a capital 'N' Name can do some capital 'D' Damage," Abbie says, smiling. "Hey," she elbows her sister, "how did you know that?"

"Hell, that's Demonology 101," she says, shrugging. "The hard part is finding out what the demon's Name _is_."

"Washington's bible," Crane volunteers before anyone asks. "In invisible ink, written in the margin of the page containing the passage I read, Leviticus chapter 18, verse 21. The passage was also underlined in the same ink." He turns and looks back at Jenny. "The hard part was finding the correct page," he says, smiling at her.

Irving swings into the parking lot, pulling into a spot beside Abbie's car. They all climb out, exhausted.

"When was the last time you had a vacation, Lieutenant?" Irving asks Abbie.

"Oh, at least seven years ago," she says, leaning against her car, Crane beside her, his left arm looped around her shoulders. "I think I'm due, don't you?"

"Yeah. Just let me know when and I'll sign the request without question," he says, extending his hand towards Crane. "Thanks," he says, shaking his hand. "Inadequate, considering you just saved the _entire_ world, but I thought someone should say it."

"You are most welcome," Crane says. "And thank you for all your help and indulgence during these years."

Irving extends his hand to Abbie, and she hugs him instead, taking him by surprise. "Thanks, Captain," she says, smiling. "And I'm gonna take a whole _month_ of vacation time."

Irving laughs and looks down at her. "If I say no, you'll unleash hell again, right?"

"No, I'll just tell Jenny where you live, Old Man," she teases, smirking at him. She gave him the nickname when the gray started outnumbering the black in his hair. Thankfully, none of the other officers are brave enough to call him that. Not to his face, anyway.

"Hey!" Irving protests.

"Hey!" Jenny echoes, but steps over and hugs Abbie anyway. "Glad you're alive."

"You, too," Abbie says.

Jenny hugs Crane briefly, slaps his shoulder, and heads to her truck.

"Go home," Irving declares, getting back into his car.

"Yes, sir," Abbie says, climbing into the passenger seat of her car, letting Crane drive. He got his driver's license shortly after the Luke Incident, and discovered that while he trusts Abbie's skills completely, he prefers to drive. Abbie had just chuckled and called him "such a man."

"So, where should we go on our vacation, Treasure? Someplace warm and tropical, a place I would not have even known existed in my former life? Someplace faraway and exotic, perhaps?"

"I was thinking we'd go someplace meaningful. To you, anyway," she says. Her eyes had been closed, but she opens them to look across at him, noting the streaks of gray in his beard, the faint lines around his eyes. _Stress ages a person, but he is still unbelievably handsome._ "Would you like to go to England?"

He stops at the red light and looks at her, his face bearing that same child-at-Christmas look she loves to see. "Truly? You would like to go there?"

"I would _love_ to go there. I've always wanted to go to England," she says, reaching her hand across. Crane holds it against his thigh as he easily maneuvers the car on the road, no longer clinging to his stringent adherence to the rules of driving. He's abandoned ten-and-two for one hand at twelve and the other holding Abbie's in his lap.

"You would?" he asks, still excited. "That's wonderful! How different things must be there…"

She squeezes his hand. "We'll look at flights tomorrow, then," she says, closing her eyes again. "Tonight, all I want to do is curl up in bed with you." She opens one eye. "And _just sleep._ " A pause. "Maybe."

Crane chuckles and turns into their driveway.

Inside, they collapse into bed, exhausted, still reeling from the knowledge that their seven-year task is complete.

"Abbie?" he asks, brushing his lips against her forehead. His hand strokes her hair, shorter than it was when they met. A few gray strands stand out here and there, but he pays them no mind, and neither does she. He strokes her cheek, still smooth and soft. _Beautiful. Still the most beautiful woman I have ever seen._

"Hmm?"

"I was wondering something. Now that this is all over…"

"I'll call my gynecologist tomorrow, Baby," she says, snuggling into his embrace.

"To get it…?"

"Yes. Taken out. I want to have your child as much as you want me to have him… or her," she says, smiling and lifting her face to kiss him. She intends for it to be a small kiss, but it quickly escalates and soon pajamas are landing on the floor.

"We should keep in practice, then," Crane mumbles, trailing kisses down her neck, "what with all the spare time we'll have…"

xXx

The day after Abbie's appointment with her gynecologist, she and Crane returned to the forest and buried her IUD deep in the ground where Moloch was swallowed up. Just in case.

Two weeks later, Crane gets to go on his first airplane ride, his beloved wife at his side.

A year later, Abbie gives birth to a son, August Corbin Crane, who grows up bright and sassy like his mother, with her wide brown eyes and carefree laugh.

A year after that, his sister joins them, Isobel Jennifer Crane, the apple of her father's eye, brilliant and studious, with keen blue eyes that remember everything and a cantankerous side that flusters Crane and amuses Abbie.

"One day, we shall have to tell them everything, Treasure."


End file.
